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nataliesfirefly · 3 months

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You and I Walk a Fragile Line - Farleigh Start x F!Reader - Part 3

a/n: omg thanks again for all the love on the last two parts! i'm probably going to make a masterlist to make all the parts more accessible <3 i feel so special when i see y'all's comments so don't be afraid to share your thoughts! this chapter is a little shorter but only because that's just how the events are playing out! btw, this one starts out with a flashback, it can be a lil confusing hehe but anyways enjoy! (also none of these are proofread LMAO so ignore mistakes)

part 1, part 2, part 4

word count: 3.0k words

warnings: ANGSTTT, language, drugs, alcohol, smoking

It was finally time to depart from your first summer at Saltburn. School was going to start in a week, and you wanted to spend some time relaxing at home before the chaos of your penultimate year in secondary school.

The summer had been a wild yet fun time. You had so much freedom to do whatever you pleased, and you didn’t really know how to spend your time, since you were usually so focused on your academics.

You warmed up to the Catton family quite a lot. You understood you didn’t really fit in, but it was nice to pretend you did. Elspeth had even gifted you one of her old necklaces that probably would have paid for a car if you had sold it.

You and Venetia spent countless hours together; by the poolside, in your rooms, doing each other's nails or makeup, and playing tennis. Although she was a few years older than you, she was like the sister you never had.

As for Felix, your friendship only grew. You were thankful for him, for being so kind to you and welcoming you into a world you had never known before.

And Farleigh. Your relationship with him was… complicated. One moment, you would hurl stupid and immature insults at each other, and the next, you would be having a peaceful conversation. But the latter usually only occured when you were alone with him, which didn’t happen often. He let his guard down when he wasn’t around his family, which you found strange, but you never questioned it.

You were going to miss this place. You had to return to your normal, everyday life as a student with a normal house and normal parents.

“We’re going to miss you dearly, love. We hope you visit again next year,” Elspeth remarked as you all sat around the breakfast table on the patio.

“Yeah. Felix, invite her again,” Venetia nudged her brother as she whispered loudly. Felix grinned and looked at you from across the table.

“So, what’s been your favorite part about your stay?” Elspeth questioned, leaning forward with curiosity.

“Honestly, I can’t even pick. It’s all been amazing. Really.” You said. You meant every single word. But you could’ve actually picked a favorite part, you just didn’t want to admit what, or who it was.

A while later, you were standing at the large front doors with your packed bags in your hands.

Venetia embraced you tightly and you dropped your bags so you could hug her back. “See you next year, hopefully,” She said with a smile after releasing you.

“Yeah. See you.” You nodded and then looked over to Felix who was now also coming in for a hug.

“Bye, mate. I’ll see you at school, alright?” He patted your back as he pulled away and you smiled with a nod.

Farleigh stood farther away, watching the goodbyes at a distance. You stared him down, trying to will him to come over.

“Bye.” He simply said, expressionless. “Bye, Farleigh,” You smiled softly at him. You weren’t sure when the next time you would see him would be. He blinked at you and held your gaze before you turned away as Duncan was opening the doors for you.

“Your cab is waiting outside the gates, miss,” He informed you. You nodded and picked up your bags.

~~~

2 YEARS LATER

It was your first evening at Oxford. You had just arrived and gotten most of your things unpacked, and then you and Felix were headed to the dining hall.

You remembered a few months ago when Felix told you Farleigh would be going to Oxford as well. You didn’t really know what you thought about this. Part of you was interested in seeing him in a different setting, not just at Saltburn during your summer holiday. Was he nicer to people at school? Did he even care about schoolwork?

“I told Farleigh to sit with us,” Felix mentioned as you walked next to him. You nodded. “Okay. How has he been?” You asked. You knew better than to care about him, since the feeling was clearly unrequited. You don’t think he would care if you died a sudden death.

But it was harmless, and only in a friendship kind of way. Or whatever complicated relationship you two had.

“Good, I think,” Felix said. “You know, his mom went to Oxford. In a way, he’ll be able to connect with her. By being here, I mean.” He explained. You could tell it was his attempt at being philosophical. You just nodded and pretended to follow what he was saying.

You both walked into the large dining hall, mini lamps placed on top of the long tables to light the dim, high-ceilinged room.

You found some empty seats and sat down. A few minutes later, Felix had already spotted Farleigh and was waving for him to come over. You followed Felix’s line of sight and saw Farleigh’s familiar coiled hair, and it seemed that maybe he had let it grow a bit longer than usual.

He was actually smiling for once, and it was such a rare sight you had to blink to make sure you weren’t hallucinating.

“Hey,” He grinned as he took the seat on the other side of you, pulling it closer to the table.

You had seen Farleigh earlier this month when you were still at Saltburn, but for some reason, he looked different. Like he grew up, or something. You couldn’t put your finger on what had changed, though.

Sure, he had recently turned 18, shortly before you did. But the whole aura radiating from Farleigh felt different and more mature. Or maybe it was the new designer clothes you had noticed, or the new necklaces and rings he was sporting.

“Hi,” You smiled. You realized you must have been staring, and you quickly glanced away to survey the rest of the students filing into the hall.

You spaced out during the small talk and stared into space, pondering how your first day would go tomorrow.

“Are you going to the party tonight?” Felix nudged you. You glanced up. “Uhh… What party?” You hated seeming clueless, but when it came to this kind of thing, you were.

“You know, to welcome all the first years. Us.” He nodded as if to gesture to everyone else.

“Oh. Right. I don’t know, I want to get some good sleep before tomorrow.” You replied while inspecting your nails and picking away at them.

That statement was half true, half not. You did want to get some well-needed rest, but you were also just terrified of parties and large social gatherings. You could be awkward sometimes, and you were scared of what a real college party would include. Drugs, alcohol… It made you uncomfortable to think about.

“C’mon, please? For me?” Felix gave you the puppy eyes and you sighed. “It’ll be fun,” He reassured you. You looked over to Farleigh. “Are you going?” You asked him.

He looked offended by your question. “Duh,” He answered. You didn’t know why it mattered if he was going or not.

“Ughhh, fine.” You rolled your eyes and facepalmed. Felix grinned brightly. “Yesss,” He whispered.

You couldn’t deny that you were having a good time at the party. You made a few new friends and you were gaining some confidence.

The only problem was that Felix promised you he would stay with you the whole time, since he knew how weary you were with even going in the first place.

And where was he? Nowhere to be seen. You guessed he had run off with some girl already. Hell, within the first ten minutes of you three entering the function, about four girls were already up on him, desperately flirting and twirling their hair.

You were standing in a dark corner when you saw Farleigh approaching you. He had a glass bottle of beer in each of his hands.

“Hey, you want one?” He offered you one of the beers. You were bored out of your mind, so you shrugged and took it. The glass felt nice and cold against your hand.

“Have you seen Felix?” Your eyes darted around nervously. Farleigh shook his head. “Nope. Saw him leaving with some red-head chick, though.” He raised his eyebrows up and down which made you laugh.

He moved to stand next to you against the wall, observing the neon-lit dance floor. “Are you enjoying yourself?” He peered down at you.

You shrugged. “I guess? I’d rather be inside sleeping, though.” He groaned. “You’re so boring. You know why you’re not having fun, right?” He leaned down slightly. You shook your head. “No, enlighten me.”

“You’re not high enough,” He said, a smirk forming on his face. “Farleigh. I’m not gonna get high with you.” You scoffed and took a swig of your beer, wincing a bit at the taste.

“Some guy was giving out joints. It’s weed,” He explained, drawing a small plastic bag of rolled joints out of his pocket.

“Yeah, I’m not gonna just smoke weed from some random guy.” You blew a strand of hair out of your face.

“They’re legit, I swear.” He leaned down to your height and whispered, “I already tried one.”

You shook your head again. “I don’t smoke, you know that.” He stood up straight.

“Just try it. Look, I’m not dead yet. See?” He twirled around and you giggled. “C’mon, we can go out here.” He nodded to the side door.

You just wanted him to stop bothering you, so you let out a sigh. “Okay, fine. Let’s go.” He excitedly spun on his heel and led you both over to the door before holding it open for you.

You stepped into the warm and dense air of the night, glancing around nervously like you might get caught by someone. But who are you kidding, pretty much everyone here smokes and probably does worse.

“Okay. I’ll light it for you. Do you wanna share it?” He asked, pulling out his lighter and flicking it on.

“Yeah.” You didn’t want the commitment of having it all to yourself. He lit the joint and you watched him take a hit. He made eye contact with you the whole time. It seemed simple enough— a short inhale and then exhale.

“You try,” He handed you the joint and you eyed it suspiciously before putting it to your lips. You took maybe too long of a hit and immediately began coughing, smoke billowing out of your mouth.

“Woah, easy..” Farleigh chuckled at your reaction and you felt his hand on the small of your back as you tried to catch your breath.

“You make it look so easy,” You cleared your throat and looked up at him with watery eyes. He smiled smugly at your words.

“Just takes practice,” He told you casually. “Smoking weed is something I’d rather not practice.” Farleigh laughed at your remark and took the joint to take another hit.

“Do you like Felix?” The question came out of the blue and you turned to him.

“What do you mean…?” You lifted an eyebrow as he passed the joint to you. He leaned up against the wall and crossed his arms.

“Like, do you actually enjoy your friendship with him?” He asked. You actually considered the question for a long moment.

“Well, he’s like… the only close friend I have,” You said hesitantly. “I continue to be friends with him because I don’t have a reason not to,” You explained before taking a small hit from the joint.

“And you like the wealth and title that comes with him, yeah?” Farleigh’s words hung in the silence. You knew he was being too nice. It was too good to be true.

“Yeah, I like the summers at Saltburn, but that’s not the reason why I’m friends with him.” Or was it? No. You refused to let yourself get gaslighted by Farleigh. But you began to question your reasoning when you said it out loud.

“I mean, what else does he have to offer?” Farleigh asked as you exhaled the smoke. Why was he suddenly turning against Felix? You thought Farleigh loved Felix. Maybe you had it all wrong.

“He’s nice to me,” You flashed him a glare and he stared back at you, drilling his gaze into yours. “I’m nice to you.” He said in a harsher tone.

“When you want to be,” You shot back, pressing the joint to your lips again, staring out into the darkness.

“What do you have against Felix, anyway?” You broke the short moment of silence and turned to face him.

“Nothing. Forget I ever said anything,” He raised his arms up as if to defend himself. “No, you can’t say weird shit like that and then expect me not to question it,” You handed the joint back to him and headed for the door to go back in. You planned on drinking as much alcohol as possible to show him that you don’t need him to teach you how to have fun.

“Do you even know how to get back to your dorm?” He asked, his brows furrowed. “What do you care?” You scowled at him before going back inside.

Sooner or later, you had downed your whole bottle of beer and then you were doing shots with some random group of girls. You didn’t remember the rest of that night, but at least you ended up in your bed by the morning, even if you had a horrible hangover.

~~~

Sunlight creeps through the window and knocks impatiently on your eyelids. You groan and sit up, opening your eyes to the bright sunrise shining through your curtains,

Memories of yesterday flood back to you. Your drama with Felix, the car ride and visit to your parents with Farleigh, and telling Venetia all about it when you got back.

Felix didn’t get back from London until late last night, so you were waiting to talk to him today.

You don’t want problems between the two of you, but sometimes he’s just so ignorant and out of touch.

A little while after breakfast, you make your way to Felix’s room. He seemed hungover during breakfast, so you wonder if this is going to turn out well.

You hesitate before knocking. “Come in,” He calls. You twist the doorknob and carefully enter. His expression softens slightly at the sight of you. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed with a book in his hands.

“Hey. Can we talk?” You ask quietly. He nods, setting the book down.

“Look, I’m sorry about yesterday. I was in a mood, and I shouldn’t have said those things to you.” Felix starts before you can.

“Okay. But you know why I was mad, right?” You don’t want it to be that easy for him.

You can see the gears turning in his head. “Erm… because I couldn’t give you a ride?” He looks up at you, and you can’t tell if he’s playing dumb or not.

“No, it wasn’t just that. It’s the principle of it, Felix.” You shake your head. “The principle of what?” He asks, standing up.

“It just seems a lot like you care more about your popularity than you care about your best friend,” You explain, your voice shaking a bit. You don’t really like confrontation.

“No, that’s not true. I just-“

“Yes, it is. Ever since we got to Oxford. It’s always been this way. Leaving me alone at parties to go fuck some random girl, or multiple, for that matter.” Your voice is raised now and you can feel the anger rushing through your veins. All the things you’ve always wanted to say, but couldn’t.

“You know what, you should be thankful I even became your friend. Look what I’ve given you.” He gestures to what you’re assuming is the estate as a whole.

You scoff and laugh at his statement. “What you’ve given me? Are you kidding?! I’m not some stray animal off the street, Felix. I’m not homeless. I have parents. I have a home.” You feel tears welling up in your eyes already and that lump in your throat starting to form.

“Then why are you here?” This is the first time you’ve ever heard Felix really raise his voice. You both freeze in the silence and let his words hang in the air.

“You want me to leave? I can leave,” The tears are now falling down your cheeks as you blink. “No, wait-“

But it’s too late. You’re already storming out of his room and back to yours, which is just down the hall.

You see Farleigh standing near the end of the hallway, trying to eavesdrop. He notices your tears and is immediately heading over to you.

You try to get into your room and lock the door before Farleigh can get to you, but you fail.

He guides you into your room, his hand pressed against your back firmly before closing the door with his free hand.

He embraces you in a gentle yet tight hug as you continue to sob. He rests his chin on your head and smooths some of your hair out. He holds you and lets you cry.

Farleigh was right about him. Felix thought he saved you from a horrible life. In reality, you would be fine without him. He was just a simple addition to your life.

You hardly realize the intimate moment that you’re in with Farleigh right now until your sobbing subsides.

You push away from him slightly, hands on his chest as you gaze up at him. You sniffle. “I got stuff on your shirt,” You laugh weakly and point at the wet spot on his shirt.

“It’s okay.” His arms return to his side and you find yourself missing the comfort of his arms around you and embracing you.

“Did you hear what he said?” You ask, wiping your eyes and sniffing again.

“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He nods. “Are you going to say I told you so?” You smile softly as you wipe the rest of your tears away.

“Do you want me to say I told you so?” He grins down at you, his brown eyes bright with amusement. You shake your head. “No way.” You both laugh, and you think you’ll be okay.

#farleigh saltburn #farleigh start x reader #saltburn #farleigh start #farleigh x you #farleigh x reader

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poisonlove · 4 months

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Finally | Jenna Ortega

Prompt: Uno Night

pairing: Jenna Ortega x reader

Author: I know, is short

My eyes meticulously observe the surrounding environment, the atmosphere becoming tense with each passing second.

We were at Hunter's trailer, enjoying a pleasant evening until things took a serious turn: playing Uno. Georgie proposed a brilliant idea, each of us would stake $50, and the winner would take it all. The excitement was palpable until Hunter started dealing the cards.

In the first round, Emma was the first to be eliminated, expressing her disappointment as she angrily left the table with the lost $50. In the next turn, Joy, Naomi, and later, a turmoil caused by Georgie accusing Jenna of cheating. Finally, Hunter was the last to leave the competition.

Only Jenna and I remained.

The brunette stared at me intently, her brown eyes brimming with challenge and excitement. A small smile played on her lips, her tongue licking the lower lip as a sign of concentration.

Change direction

Jenna throws the card on the table, her eyes sparkling with excitement. The tension rises, and with a lump in my throat, I watch expectantly for the brunette's next move. My eyes see her hand delicately picking the penultimate card, her fingers long and tapered, utterly perfect.

Blue 7

I see the card she drops and shift my gaze to Jenna, the brunette looking at me amused.

By now, I was accustomed to Jenna's gaze: no shame, no concern if she embarrassed you. Jenna looked at me as if she could understand my feelings and thoughts with a glance, even deciphering the cards I held.

"Damn," Georgie mutters, watching the game intently, his knee nervously moving up and down. "Uno," Jenna says, smiling widely, the dimple on her face deepening.

My eyes soften seeing the joy in Jenna's state: a broad smile, bright and hopeful eyes. I had been in love with Jenna for a while now, enjoying seeing her happy, laughing, looking at me amused. During these weeks of shooting for the second season of "Wednesday," we spent a lot of time together off set: drinking, dancing, or watching movies in my trailer after a stressful day.

My eyes look at the plate full of money: $400. I bite my lower lip nervously. I divert my attention from the money, looking at Jenna, who was watching me, waiting for my move, with Georgie nervously by my side. The girls were chatting on the sofas, immediately forgetting their defeat. Hunter watched the game with crossed arms.

I look at Jenna again, who was looking at me with a small smile on her lips.

Despite my strong feelings for Jenna, I was also very competitive, and the prize was truly tempting. Sorry, Jen. With eyes brimming with mischief, I play my ace in the hole: +4. Jenna opens her mouth in surprise and looks at me in shock, Georgie smiling at my move.

"Uno," I say, knowing perfectly well that Jenna couldn't respond to my move as she was picking up the four cards from the deck. Nonchalantly, I play my last card on the table. I won. I WON. I smile widely and stand up from the table, Georgie happy for my brilliant play. "You're great," Hunter says, smiling widely, giving me a high five.

Jenna huffs and sighs loudly through her nostrils due to the bad defeat.

"Is that mine?" I take the money and put it in the back pocket of my pants. "Did y/n win?" Emma asks with curiosity from the couch, looking at me with a smile. "Yes," Jenna interjects, frustrated. "Another match?" Hunter claps his hands and smiles excitedly, Georgie nodding quickly.

"I have to go, guys," the brunette murmurs tiredly, a strange tone in her voice. Jenna gets up from the chair and puts on her jacket, her eyes giving me a quick glance before looking away and smiling at the others. "Tomorrow morning, I have to record," she apologizes quickly before walking towards the exit. "Alright… see you tomorrow then," Hunter says as he picks up the cards, shuffling them. "I'm going too," I mumble quickly, following the brunette.

I wasn't sure if Jenna was angry with me for the defeat; I knew she was extremely competitive. Jenna Ortega was known to be a determined, elegant, professional, and serious person for her work, but many didn't know that behind her mask of a cold and solitary girl was a child who pouted and grumbled about entirely trivial things, like tonight.

"Jen," I say quickly, catching my breath from the sudden run.

Darkness surrounds us, and a beautiful starry sky highlights the full moon. Jenna looks at me with a raised eyebrow, the jacket around her body to shield herself from the cold. The faint light from the moon accentuates her eyes that glitter in a spectacular way. "Hey," Jenna genuinely smiles as soon as she sees me.

"You're not mad, are you?" I ask quickly with concern. I walk more and stop in front of the brunette. "I lost $50," she starts, raising an eyebrow, biting her lip nervously, "but it offends me that you think I could be angry about this," she concludes, looking at me through her long lashes.

"Oh," I open my mouth in surprise, blushing violently for my stupid thought. "I'm sorry, tomorrow I'll make it up with coffee," I say, laughing embarrassedly, and Jenna analyzes me with her gaze, her lower lip trapped between her teeth.

You can't understand the longing I'm feeling right now to kiss her.

"Alright…" she says timidly, releasing her lower lip, smiling, "but to make up, you'll have to do more," she sings with a playful tone, and I smile at her gesture, getting lost staring at her magnificence. Jenna continues to stare at me, her eyes shining in an incredible way.

"So… goodnight," I say with embarrassment, hands in the pockets of my hoodie trying to warm myself, clearing my throat. "Goodnight," Jenna smiles sincerely and walks down the road towards her trailer.

Jenna stops in her tracks, turning around. I look with confusion as she retraces her steps, hesitantly approaching me. "You worried about me… it was kind of nice," she says, smiling shyly, her sweet eyes fixed on me. The brunette leans timidly towards my face, placing her lips against my cheek.

My heart races wildly against my ribcage, and all I could think was that I ardently wished for Jenna to kiss me on the lips.

(…)

"You're really into Jenna," Georgie says, chuckling softly, looking at me with mischief.

"Shut up," I retort with flushed cheeks, my eyes scanning the set for the petite brunette. I release a sigh of relief. I had two coffee cups in my hands, one for me and the other for Jenna. At 7 in the morning, I had read Jenna's message that she was already on set and that we would see each other later. Now it's nine, and I heard from Emma that Jenna's morning recordings were over.

"When will you tell her?" Georgie asks, lowering his voice, his smile fading from his face. "Soon," I say, smiling widely, knowing perfectly well that I'm telling a lie. "Are you sure?" Georgie looks at me with concern, searching for the answer in my eyes. "Yes…?" I reply, questioning? I'm not entirely sure.

"If you don't try, you'll never know the answer… at worst, you aim for other girls," he says with enthusiasm, his eyes trying to make me smile at his statement.

"I know," I say weakly, silently thanking my friend.

My eyes unconsciously turn to the right, immediately finding Jenna. The brunette was wearing her Wednesday costume, her attention on the producer who was telling her how to improve some scenes.

Jenna was simply perfect, even in Wednesday's clothes. Her braids and seriousness made my heart beat faster.

I walk towards her, and Jenna, smiling at the producer, sees him quickly moving away. The brunette shifts her gaze to the approaching steps and smiles as soon as she sees me. I give a small smile and notice her tiredness in her eyes.

"Hi," Jenna smiles widely, her gaze landing on the cups I held between my hands. "For me?" The question sounds surprised and sweet at the same time, her eyes sparkling playfully. Jenna chews her lower lip, looking at me tenderly. "Yes," I smile shyly, offering the cup to Jenna.

The brunette takes the cup, our fingers brushing. An electric shock runs through my body, and I think Jenna felt it too, as she looked at my hand. "Thanks," Jenna smiles with her lips against the cup, taking a sip. She closes her eyes for the pleasant warmth.

Georgie's words echo in my mind, and nervousness runs through my body. I knew I was risking our friendship… but the worst thing she could say is no, right? Forget it all, we laugh it off, and we continue as friends. "Jen, I…" I start, unsure. Jenna looks at me through her long lashes, her eyes staring intensely. I swallow saliva and try to find courage. "Do you… want to…" I stammer, a lump in my throat.

Jenna continues to stare at me.

"See you tonight? Maybe… for dinner?" I ask with curiosity, fear flowing through my veins. I release a sigh of relief, feeling like I had lifted a weight off my chest. Jenna looks at me carefully. The brunette remains silent, her fingers gripping the cup, her eyes looking at me thoughtfully.

"A date?" She says with curiosity, her eyes analyzing my reaction. I blush and look at Jenna with embarrassment. "Yes? If you're uncomfortable, it's okay just as friends," I confess quickly, scared. Jenna smiles widely and looks at me with bright eyes, almost relieved.

"You took your time," she says, winking at me, and I look at her with confusion. "What?" I say spontaneously, and Jenna rolls her eyes at my comment. "I've literally been flirting with you for weeks," she says smiling, amused by her comment.

"Oh…" I affirm with embarrassment, feeling stupid.

"Okay, at 8 at your place?" Jenna taps her fingers on the cup and looks at me with excitement, hope in her eyes. I nod with confusion, and Jenna smiles pleased. She takes a sip of her coffee and places it on a table near the set.

The brunette approaches and looks at me smiling, her eyes bright and sweet. My heart beats quickly against my ribcage, and I watch as Jenna gets closer to me, her hands grabbing mine tightly, almost as if she's afraid I'll run away. I swallow saliva, our noses brushing, breaths mingling. Jenna gently presses her lips against mine, pressing for a passionate kiss.

I reciprocate enthusiastically.

Jenna releases our fingers and grabs my neck, her fingertips holding the grip to get closer to me. I sigh during the kiss and place my hands on her hips, more as a support since I was afraid of fainting in front of everyone. Everyone. We're literally kissing in front of the whole cast, regardless of comments or curious looks.

Jenna separates our lips with a loud smack.

"So, tonight?" She says, smiling widely, lips swollen from the kiss. Her cheeks were flushed, the wig now a bit disheveled from the intensity of the kiss.

"Yes…" I say breathlessly, smiling widely.

#jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x y/n #jenna ortega x fem!reader #wednesday addams x reader #miércoles addams #wednesday x you #wednesday addams x you #jenna marie ortega #uno cards #cute #lesbian kissing #kiss #girls kissing girls

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rollingsins · 9 months

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all hers, part xxvi

summary: In the aftermath of everything, back to Woodsboro YN and Tara go.

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, mention of violence.

word count: 2.3k

a/n: this is a bit of a nothing chapter, apologies in advance. This is also the penultimate chapter, part of why I've been procrastinating so long. but alas, all good things must come to an end ;'))

The trip back to Woodsboro hospital is smoother than anticipated.

The morphine does wonders for your pain, but not so much for your coherence. By the time you’re rolled out into the ambulance, you’ve told Tara how pretty she is at least six times and declared Sam ‘best sister-in-law in the world’ at least three.

Thankfully, Nurse Rosario is nowhere to be found.

Although Tara had mellowed slightly after your last talk, you’re not keen for a repeat. After she’d plied you with enough morphine to take down a horse, she’d disappeared. Perhaps heeding the warning of Tara’s stormy glare.

Tara rides in the ambulance with you, her hand pressed in yours. Sam sits beside you (Dewey had re-romandeered the car they’d stolen with a sigh and a forgiving smile).

By the time you’re rolled into Woodsboro hospital, it’s near noon. Your Dad’s insurance has paid for a private room for him, your Mom and you and so you tilt your neck eagerly as you’re rolled onto the floor, searching each face for the familiarity of your parents.

“Your parents are here,” Says one of the EMTs, noticing the way your head tilts around madly, “Your Mom is getting a scan done, your Dad is with her. They’re both okay. They’ll be here soon.”

“Thanks,” You say, though it doesn’t sate your anxiety. That won’t be gone until they’re both here with you.

The floor is awash with busy doctors and nurses.

Most don’t give you a second look.

Except for one.

Nurse Dawson is standing near one of the nurses stations when you’re rolled into your room.

You see her first, though Tara doesn’t notice her.

And when Nurse Dawson turns and sees your girlfriend, her face falls.

Only for a moment. Her face conflicts, but the professionalism wins out.

She straightens her shoulders.

And you can tell by the look on her face she’s the one assigned to you.

Tara smiles at you as the EMTs settle you into your new bed. Oblivious to the carnage she causes.

It’s like some sort of reverse superpower.

The ability to somehow irritate every medical professional assigned to her.

You sigh and lean back into your pillows as the nurse approaches.

“YN. Ms Carpenter,” She says politely enough, “Nice to see you again.”

Tara looks over impatient. You can tell by the lack of recognition in her face she doesn’t recognise the nurse. Instead, she looks over to Sam.

“Sure,” Says Tara, nonplussed, “I’m going to need another bed in here for my sister. She spent last night on a couple of plastic chairs.”

You look around the room.

There’s two empty beds - presumably for your mother and father. It’s cramped in here, more so than usual with your family reunion. You can tell before the Nurse speaks Tara isn’t going to like her answer.

“We don’t have beds to spare for visitors, Tara,” Nurse Dawson says pointedly, “Perhaps you and your sister could come back in the morning.”

Tara stares a moment.

Then her eyes narrow.

You tug gently at her hand trying to draw her attention.

“Babe,” You touch her arm gently, “Maybe it’s not a terrible idea. You and Sam could both go home and get some rest.”

“Absolutely not,” Tara says, voice indignant, “I’m not leaving you alone, baby.”

“Mom and Dad will be here with me,” You assure, but Tara’s turned her glare towards you, “Seriously babe. I’ll be okay.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Says Tara, voice final. She shoots a look over to Nurse Dawson, “I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to.”

Your Mom is wheeled back in first.

You sit up in your bed so abruptly you almost knock Tara to the floor.

Your Mom is misty-eyed, gaze a little unfocused, undoubtedly strung out on pain medication. Her eyes well when she sees you, hand twitching as she sits a little taller in her seat.

“Mom,” You croak, “Mom, are you okay?”

“I’m fine, darling,” She says. The nurse wheels her into the slot beside you and she reaches for your hand, “Are you okay?”

Sam wanders off to leave you to your reunion, but Tara stays nestled into your side. Your Mom’s leg is gone, and you can’t help the flood of tears that burst through each time your gaze wanders down.

“It’s alright, YN,” Your Mom assures, “I’m alive. Dad’s alive. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

Your Dad follows in, shortly after.

He’s in a wheelchair, looking so frail with dark circles under his eyes and milky, pale skin. He squeezes your hand and leans forward to press a kiss to your cheek.

And then he surveys Tara.

She’s sitting up now, your hand still pressed firmly in hers. He watches quietly for a moment. You almost think he’s about to ask her to leave when he reaches out, and outstretches his hand.

Tara blinks in surprise.

Your eyebrows furrow.

Your Dad looks serious. The kind of seriousness usually accompanied by a raise in tone or the promise of his shotgun. But there’s none of that now.

Hesitantly, Tara takes his hand.

“Thank you,” He says, as she clasps her hand in his. He shakes it firmly, “Thank you for saving my daughter.”

Tara doesn’t say anything.

You look at your Dad. His voice is earnest, his brows pinched.

He looks open.

Like he’s about to cry.

“Dad,” You say, voice soft.

He squeezes Tara’s hand once, then lets her go. Slowly, he wheels towards you, eyes misty.

“You,” He says as he pulls you into a hug, “Are never leaving my side again.”

He pulls back slightly and thinks.

“Or hers.”

When the dust settles and your Dad has got the last of his dewey, sappy words out, the room moves back into normality.

Normality now, it seems, is absurdity.

Tara and your Dad are watching a ball game together. You survey them, eyebrow raised, sharing a look of bewilderment with Sam as she walks back into the room.

“Hey,” Says Sam, tray of donuts in hand. Tara and your Dad don’t look up from the TV, “What are we watching?”

“Giants,” Says Tara. She lounges back into your hospital bed, nestling her head on your shoulder, “Flores is killing it.”

“About damn time,” Grumbles your Dad, “He spent the last game striking out.”

“Speaking of striking out,” You say, eyebrow raised at Sam, “Did you speak to Nurse Dawson about a spare bed?”

Sam shakes her head.

“It’s fine,” She says, “I’d rather sleep in my own bed anyway. Besides,”

She eyes your Mom and Dad.

“It seems like a family affair in here anyway. You’re sure you don’t want to come with me, Tara? The nurse seemed pretty insistent that no more beds would fit.”

“I’m sure.” Tara says, voice flat. She curls a protective arm around your waist.

You flash Sam a small smile, “It’s fine, Sam. She can sleep with me. She’s little, she fits.”

Sam purses her lips.

Tara glares up at you.

“I am not little.” She says, frowning.

You press a kiss to her lips.

“Okay, then big guy, better go home with Sam.” You tease.

She pouts. Nudges her face into your neck.

“I fit,” She tells Sam, and then turns her attention back to the ball game.

Sam makes her departure, shortly thereafter. Your Dad falls asleep midway through the game, your Mom is wheeled off for an MRI at just the moment Tara’s friends make an appearance.

Liv’s bought flowers, Chad and Mindy follow in with wide eyes. They hug you, settle down into the seats by your bed, careful not to wake your snoring Father.

“Hey,” Mindy says, “How are you feeling?”

“She’s okay,” Says Tara, smoothing your hair back, “Now the morphines kicked in, right baby?”

“Right,” You echo, sitting up slightly.

Liv smiles.

“These are for you,” She says, “Tara said they were your favorite.”

“Thanks Liv,” You say with a smile.

Mindy settles on the chair to your left, Chad and Liv hover near the end of your bed.

Mindy leans over to you, a little wide eyed.

“The Sheriff,” She says, chewing her lip, “Damn it. I should have guessed.”

“I just don’t understand,” Says Liv, eyebrows pinched, “Why would she kill her own son?”

Tara shifts, uncomfortably. Mindy rolls her eyes.

“She didn’t kill her own son, dumbass,” Says Mindy, “Isn’t it obvious?”

You swallow.

“There’s no body” Mindy says, leaning forward in her seat, a little excited, “When Ghostface kills, there’s always a body.”

Liv blinks back at her.

“What if…” Mindy says, eyes squinted like she’s thinking hard, “What if Wes isn’t dead at all. What if that’s just what he wanted us all to think? What if there’s a third Ghostface, and it’s him?”

Your heart hammers.

A wave of nausea rises at the theory, but before you can voice your displeasure, Chad beats you too it.

“Give it up, Nancy Drew,” He says, shaking his head, “You haven’t been right a single time. All those powerpoints for nothing. I think it’s time to pack it in.”

Mindy pouts, slumping back in her seat.

“I could have been right,” She says, but Chad raises a hand.

“But you weren’t. Jesus. Leave it alone.”

He pats your hand, not unkindly, “The important thing is Ghostface is gone and YN and Tara are okay.”

“Thanks Chad,” You say.

He leans back in his seat, eyebrows pinched.

“I just don’t get why she did it at all,” Says Chad, tilting his head in a frown, “Same with Richie. Why? It all seems so pointless.”

Tara stirs, pressing a comforting kiss to the side of your neck.

“That’s for the police to figure out,” She says, squeezing your hand, “For now? Let’s not look a gift horse in the mouth.”

The days pass by in a blur of morphine, and nausea and the blare of Tara and your Dad’s newfound hobby of watching sports games together.

Tara sleeps at your side, dotes on you like a baby bird who has fallen from the nest.

Sam stops by in the afternoons, Nurse Dawson avoids the two of you as best she can, coming into your room wordlessly and appraising Tara with a resentful glare everytime she changes your bandages.

Dewey returns to take your statement, takes Tara and Sam away for hours to question them, but ultimately, the case is clear cut.

The Sheriff is Ghostface, Richie her accomplice, and by the seventh day of your hospital stay, Dewey informs you the police are closing the case as solved.

It would be worrying - the police’s utter lack of comprehension - had it not been in your favor.

So you nod your head and squeeze Tara’s hand as you accept his apology for the Woodsboro police failing you both.

“We’ll be suing the police department,” Says your Father curtly, before Dewey can make his exit, “For gross negligence and endangering the life of my daughter.”

You sigh.

Tara cocks her head, as if she’s about to list off a variety of law firms she’s learned of through her extensive research before you squeeze her shoulder, and pull her back down to you.

Your Mother huffs before you can say anything.

“We’re not suing anybody,” Says your Mom firmly. She offers Dewey the smallest of smiles, “Thank you, Deputy Riley.”

“We should be suing the police,” Tara grumbles later, when she’s helping you into the back of Sam’s car.

You’d be discharged by a happy Nurse Dawson. Your Mom and Dad would stay a little longer in the hospital while you slept over at Tara’s for a few nights.

Hospitals give you the creeps, and you didn’t want to spend any more time there than necessary.

Tara slips your seatbelt around your waist and you pull her in for a brief kiss.

“What’s all that about not looking a gift horse in the mouth?” You say quietly as Sam slips into the drivers seat and Tara falls quiet.

Your stomach is still a little sore - you feel it now as Tara and Sam help you up the staircase to her bedroom.

“Watch it Sam, you neanderthal,” Tara snaps as Sam almost steps on your foot as they're half-carrying you to bed.

You scold her if you had the strength. Instead, you focus all your energy into trying not to focus on the searing pain in your side as Tara slips you into her sheets.

“Sorry, YN,” Sam says quietly before Tara shoos her out.

You’re sweating a little, gone is the morphine. Nurse Dawson had put you on something else - something a little less addictive, and a little more prone to letting the pain in.

You groan as Tara slides into the spot next to you, soothing your pain with the press of her lips.

“Does it hurt, baby?” She asks, brown eyes mournful, “Do you want me to get you your pills?”

You shake your head.

The pain stings, like a dull ache, but it doesn’t hurt so much you need more. You touch her arm, nestle yourself into her side.

“Just stay with me and I’ll be fine,” You say, as she curls her arm around your waist. She leans down and places a protective kiss to the top of your head.

“I don’t like seeing you like this,” She admits, softly. You lean up and she presses the softest kiss to your lips, “Do you want me to see if Chad can get you something stronger?”

“No babe,” You chide, gently, “I’m fine.”

Tara thinks.

“Do you want me to go down on you?” She asks, hopeful, “That might make you feel better.”

You laugh.

“Might make me feel better, or you feel better?” You ask.

“Both,” She says with a pout.

You lean up to her, press another warm kiss to her lips.

“Just stay with me,” You say, “As long as you’re here I’ll be fine.”

Tara rubs her hand along the stretch of your back.

“Okay,” She says, voice soft, “I’ll just stay here with you.”

#all hers #ghostface!tara #jenna ortega #scream #scream vi #tara carpenter #tara carpenter x yn #tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x you #jenna ortega x yn #jenna ortega x you #jenna ortega x reader #fanfic #mine

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randomshyperson · 2 years

Text

High School Sweethearts - Cheerleader!Wanda x Reader [Kinktober]

Summary: The new student captures your attention completely. She's perfect and she's everything you ever wanted.

Warnings: hints of corruption/innocence kink, first kiss, first time, virgin!Wanda, smut, teasing, some edging, fingering, strap-on use, top!reader, high school au | Words: 6.923k

A/N-> My first time writing something of this kink be kind. I'm absorbing the latest episode of She-Hulk yet, someone needs to send Jen hugs.

Kinktober Collection | General Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad

--//--

It was Kate who told you about the new students.

It was Tuesday, and the school was full of burbs all over the hall. You were late and a little irritated because you had argued with your father on the way - Steve Rogers could be many things, and stubborn was most of them. - and so you weren't the least bit interested in the daily gossip that your colleagues might have.

Still, Kate was one of your favorite people and she was so sweet that you didn't have the heart to ignore her attempts to get close during her freshman year, and now, she was a sophomore and you were graduating, and even though you weren't in the same classes, you were inseparable.

"I hear they're the mayor's kids, and Y/N, you have to see, the two of them look like they stepped off a magazine cover." She excitedly narrates her encounter with the new students in the cafeteria. "If they weren't wearing their Avengers High uniforms, I would have mistaken them for models, I swear."

You chuckle, finishing picking up your books and closing your locker.

"Be careful not to drool too much, Bishop. Or your girlfriend will get jealous." You tease, but Kate doesn't laugh, assuming a momentarily fearful expression and looking around to see if Yelena wasn't somewhere listening in on the conversation.

The reaction only makes you laugh harder.

It takes three periods before you finally see the new students. By then, you have heard half the school talking about them, and you know they are twins, and yes, really the mayor's children because Darcy Lewis shows you a picture on her cell phone with the whole family landing in the local paper.

"They're cute, but it's no big deal." You mutter to Kate after looking at the photo, and she and Darcy share a nasal laugh.

"You'll change your mind when you see them in person." Your friend says, looking forward again because Professor Harkness has just entered the room.

Darcy puts her cell phone away, and you sigh, "I highly doubt it, I study with the most beautiful girls in the world, I'm not easy to impress. " You compliment them charmingly and Darcy and Kate laugh softly, rolling their eyes in good humor.

It's not a lie what you said, yet when between the penultimate and last period, a lost-looking girl bumps into you in the hallway, you are momentarily speechless at the greenish irises in front of you.

"Sorry, I didn't see you." She mutters in apology, stooping to grab the book she has knocked over and return it to you.

As you pick it up, you don't let go. "But I did see you. You're the new girl, right?"

She smiles in surprise, hugging her own notebook. "Yeah, that's me. I'm Wanda. We just moved here from New York-"

You raise a hand in the air and Wanda falls silent in confusion, but you smile gently.

"Why don't you tell me that, and whatever you want, over coffee?"

She blushes very hard, opening her mouth a few times before giving a shy laugh. "S-sure, I like coffee."

You move closer and take out the pen attached to her notebook. You take the cap off with your teeth, and Wanda watches the item with hot cheeks the entire time you are pulling out a sheet of paper and writing your number in her notebook.

As you return the pen, you smile at her. "Don't forget to text, I'm dying to know the end of your story." You tell her, offering a gentle nod before leaving.

Wanda sighs loudly, leaning her back on the lockers. A silly smile fills her face, and she stands for a good few minutes trying to understand what just happened and why her legs are so shaky.

–//–

You go out for coffee after class on Thursday, and for thirty whole minutes, you try not to stare at the legs exposed by her cheer skirt.

Wanda is so beautiful it hurts, and her near cluelessness only makes her more attractive.

You clear your throat quietly because she is a really very interesting person and you want to know more about her.

You learn that she was born in Sokovia - which explains her delightful accent that distracts you with every word - and that she moved to New York when her parents divorced. She is the younger twin, but not the sister, as her father has another girl named Lorna who is in middle school. It is also Wanda's first time attending school, and when she says this you widen your eyes slightly.

"Are you kidding me?" You question pushing the coffee creamer with your straw, she laughs lightly.

"No, I swear." She assures you humorously, mimicking your movements without realizing it in her own drink. "My dad is the overprotective type, and Pietro and I have been homeschooled all our lives. But it's senior year and somehow we managed to convince him that it was an important experience. Pietro wants a scholarship for athletics and I, well, I'd like to do cinema."

You smile. "So you like movies?"

Her face lights up even more. "I love movies! I know it's a very competitive industry, but my dream is to work as a film director! I love writing stories, and it would be so amazing to bring them to the screen and... I'm boring you, aren't I?" she interrupts, her cheeks a little red. "Sorry, I get too excited-"

"No, you're not." You interrupt her, "I like hearing you talk, go ahead."

Wanda blushes, even more, lowering her embarrassed gaze to her own lap before smiling shyly.

She tells you more about her dream of being a filmmaker, and about her family not liking the idea of her not pursuing a more secure career, and you make a point of encouraging her to do what she likes and not what others think is right, and Wanda is so flustered she hardly knows how to thank you.

You realize that it is getting late, and if you don't come back now, your father will probably find a new problem to discuss, so you tell Wanda that you have to go. She seems sad about this ending, and yet is still too shy to call you out on anything else. When she builds up the courage to do so, you think your heart won't hold out from all the cuteness.

"We could... I don't know, have tea? Or soda?" She invites clumsily, and you laugh softly just enough to make the redness of her cheeks worse.

Finishing putting on your jacket, you retort:

"I have a better idea, filmmaker girl. Want to go over to the house for Netflix&Chill?"

It's a test or a joke with real intent, and Wanda falls right in.

"Of course! I have like a dozen recommendations, and we could watch something by Kubrick or maybe Burton..."

You bite your lip, you're the one who fell. For her, and it was in the blink of an eye.

"Sure, Wanda, any movie you want." That's what you answer, deciding to keep the not going to be much-watching part to yourself.

–//–

Wanda lived on the edge of Westview, which meant that you could use the subway. But part of you wanted to impress her, so when Bucky let you use his motorcycle, you didn't miss your chance.

"Don't scratch it." He repeated the instructions, the key at face height. You raised your hand to take it, and he lifted the item a little further. "And what's our deal?"

You rolled your eyes. "Three hours out of the house for you to have a date night with my father. I could sue you for the trauma." You joked making him laugh before you managed to steal the key.

"Just text me when you're on your way. And please-"

"No scratches." You completed with an impatient sigh.

While your stepfather had his date night with your dad - whom you were avoiding as much as possible mainly because the deadline for sending admission letters was coming up and you had no idea what you were going to do and didn't want him pressing ideas on you - you made your way across town to see Wanda Maximoff and her stupidly adorable face.

Just as you imagined, she was excited by your arrival on the motorcycle, equally so from Pietro who started asking you questions as soon as you properly introduced yourself, but you noticed that Wanda's father was not too happy.

"You must be Y/N." He said as soon as Wanda guided you to the fancy balcony like all the rest of the house and the well-molded garden.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Maximoff." You spoke, which made him chuckle slightly.

"Actually it's Lehnsherr, Maximoff is their mother's maiden name." He clarified, and you feigned interest, nodding softly.

"Papa, Y/N, and I are going to watch a movie in my room." Said the girl - She was wearing a long sweatshirt and shorts that disappeared with the garment covering it, and you were having a hard time trying to not imagine what it would be like to slide your hand under there.

Erik looked you up and down as if he could read all your naughty intentions at once.

"Open door always, Wanda." He warned with his arms crossed, and Wanda chuckled confusedly, pulling you by the hand toward her bedroom.

You heard Erik ask Pietro questions about you, but your gaze was more attentive to the movement of Wanda's hips leading upstairs.

"Your house is quite beautiful, Wanda." You comment once she leads you into the bedroom. "Not as beautiful as the owner, of course."

She giggles embarrassed at the compliment, and you take the opportunity to kick the door discreetly shut. "Come sit here, I've set everything up for us."

She did, you could see the laptop, the drinks, and the popcorn. A proper movie session with Wanda in her fancy room, and you sighed lightly as you took off your shoes and jacket to sit on the bed next to her.

"What movie did you pick for us, pretty girl?" Your compliments were visually making her flustered, but she still said nothing, adjusting herself on the bed to reach for her laptop. "I was thinking of watching some classic, so I've sorted out some options for us."

She showed you a list that made you smile warmly. All the movies were good, but none had what you wanted to do with Wanda.

"I have a better suggestion, and I'm sure you've never seen this one." You told her as you moved the laptop to your own lap to search. She tried to peek, and you pulled away with a laugh. "No peeking, it's a surprise."

She laughed, shaking her head but holding herself in place. " All right."

"You're Jewish, right?" Your question surprised her a little, but she murmured in agreement the next second. You noticed many things on the way to her room, including the Jewish items that filled the blanks in your head about what you knew about the girl next to you. "Another reason for you to love this movie."

"So mysterious." She murmured humorously getting a soft chuckle from you. Once you had chosen and the start credits began to roll, Wanda bit her lip curiously. "What's it about?"

You crossed your ankles together. "Temptation."

Wanda looked at you. "What?"

"Watch the movie, movie girl." You retorted amused and she chuckled softly before turning her attention back to the screen.

For the first few minutes of Disobedience, Wanda was a little upset. The story is sad in its complexity, and dealt with the fanatical religious obsession of a Jewish community and the harm to the protagonists' freedom. And at first, she didn't catch what the film was really about.

She thought it was sweet that you had brought a movie about her family's religion until the first kissing scene made her cheeks blush.

"Oh, they were a couple..." The words escape you before she can count them, and you lick your lips to contain your own anxiety.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Your whisper is curious in totality, and Wanda laughs in confusion, taking her gaze off the screen.

"What? No, of course not." She retorts, turning her attention back to the film. " They are sweet. I mean, the story is sad as hell, but they're sweet."

You smile, a relief filling your chest. You are about to make a comment when the door opens, and the moody figure of Erik appears.

"I told you I wanted the door open." He reminisces as Wanda pauses the movie.

"Sorry, papa, it must have closed with the wind." She half-heartedly clarifies, and you bite your tongue to hold back the impatient sigh of having your moment interrupted.

"I have a dinner with the Congress people now, I just came to say good night, dear. And please don't delay Miss Rogers' stay here too long, driving late at night is dangerous."

You are about to say you will go as soon as the movie is over when Wanda comments:

"She could sleep here." And Erik hesitates just as you do. Wanda swallows dryly. "If you want to, of course. What if it's okay with you, papa?"

You have trouble hiding your smile, and Erik looks ready to make up an excuse when his cell phone rings. He sighs impatiently.

"Sure, we have a guest room. Good night to you." He says before answering the phone and leaving the room, talking about work until his voice fades from the distance.

Wanda leaves the movie paused, a confused expression on her face.

"He's acting so weird. This bed is big enough, why would I put you on the other side of the house?"

You stare at her and give an impressed laugh when you realize that Wanda simply doesn't know why.

"Wanda, your father doesn't want me to sleep in the same bed as you."

She frowns in confusion, "Why?"

You tilt your head. "He thinks we're going to fu-"

"Hey, I'm going at Quill's, can you cover for me if Dad asks for me when he gets back from his fancy dinner?" Pietro interrupts your speech as he enters the room, already holding the keys to the white pickup truck you've seen him drive a few times to school. Wanda blinks away from your intense gaze, a bit flustered.

"S-sure, Pietro, good night." She says very quickly, and the other looks between you and her with a suggestive expression.

"You two behave yourselves, huh? Don't do anything I wouldn't do." He teases, and Wanda grimaces. You chuckle.

"Sure thing, mary jane." You retort without hesitation and Pietro stops smiling at that instant. Wanda doesn't understand and probably doesn't know that Pietro smokes pot behind the gyms, and so before she can question the nickname, Pietro is muttering goodbye as he leaves the room.

"What was that...?" She asks but you shake your head, giving the movie a play.

"Let's keep watching, it's getting to the best part." Wanda sighs a little as you adjust and stay close enough for her to smell your perfume completely, effectively taking all attention away from the movie.

But she had to pay attention when the first moans started. In an instant, her cheeks burned, and Wanda tried to look as cool about it as she could.

You were tapping your fingers on your stomach, completely at ease with the intimate scene playing out on the screen in front of you, and it is impossible for Wanda to do the same.

Once she shifts uncomfortably, and you notice her clenching her thighs, you sigh.

"How was your first kiss?" Your question almost makes her choke, but Wanda is thankful that at least she has an excuse to look away from the movie's sex scene.

"Hum, I've never..."

"Really?" You cut her off gently, adjusting your weight on her arm to face her, and Wanda feels very nervous about all the attention. She nods, and you smile. "It's really hard to believe you didn't have a line of suitors."

Wanda chuckles embarrassedly, shaking her head. "Well, I don't know many people, you know? It's not like I had classmates studying at home. And when I wasn't studying, I was at some officional event, being my dad's perfect little girl."

The hidden bitterness in her sentence made you raise an eyebrow softly, the interest burning in your mind.

"I know the feeling, my father is a military man and loves to keep up appearances." You say, quietly closing the laptop in Wanda's lap. "But unlike you, I do whatever it takes to annoy him."

"Very naughty of you." She mutters half breathlessly because you are leaning over her suddenly. But it's only to put the closed laptop on the nightstand, and once you notice the way Wanda is blushing and breathing out of rhythm, a smile forms on your face.

"Wanda, I would like to be your first kiss." You whisper to her, and instead of pulling away, you rest a hand on the side of her head. "If you want that of course."

She chokes softly but nods almost frantically. "Yeah... I'd like that."

"Let's start with lesson one then. Close your bedroom door." You guide low against her lips, using every mental control to pull yourself away from her. Wanda gasps, but quickly moves in shaky steps off the bed to the bedroom door, and you hide a smile as you tuck yourself into her bed.

She surprises you a little when with trembling fingers, she locks the door.

"Just... for precaution." She clarifies embarrassed about the look on your face, but you just shrug.

"I'm not complaining." You tease. "Come here."

Wanda swallows dryly and wastes no time in obeying, walking back to the bed. She sits down a little further in front of you, and you hold out your hand for her to take, and once she does, you pull her gently to sit on your lap.

Wanda is trembling with nervousness, and her skin is warm to the touch. You lick your lips, trying to control yourself and not grab her right there and kiss and fuck her until she can't remember her own name, and it takes a lot of willpower when she looks so good all over you.

"You've never really kissed anyone, not even a small peck?" You ask sweetly, bringing your hand to her cheek for her to look at you. When she denies it with her head, you move closer. "Give me a peck then." She does so on the spot, and it's quick as expected, but it turns her cheeks into tomatoes. You smile, "Again. Longer this time."

She sighs, but nods and breaks the distance, pressing her lips over yours.

Instead of letting go, you place your hand on her cheek and kiss her back firmly, eliciting a surprised and affected sigh in return. She opens her mouth to breathe, and you slide your tongue inside.

Wanda makes a noise with her throat, moving restlessly in your lap but you guide the kiss until she gets used to the sensation and soon her breathless sighs sound like gasping pleas, her hands move to your shoulders and she tries to deepen.

Everything in her body begs for more - more of your hands, squeezing her waist, more of your tongue sucking hers, and more of you, everywhere you can touch. She feels hot and bothered, and it is as new and fantastic as it is overwhelming.

You kiss her until she starts to move her hips impatiently against your thigh, and then you know you have to stop now or you won't be able to pull it off later. The way your heart speeds up when she looks at you with puffy lips and dark eyes once the kiss is over only confirms this.

"Is everything okay?" Wanda speaks first, her voice shaky and husky, her face inches from yours.

You take a deep breath, offering her a small smile.

"Sure, I should just go home." You say, and you are already moving her off of you in the next moment, missing the other's confused look.

Once you have your shoes on, Wanda can't contain her concern.

"I...I did it wrong didn't I?"

You frown, turning to her as you put on your jacket. Wanda looks down at her own lap.

"You didn't do anything wrong, Wanda." You tell her, moving closer again to the end of the bed. "Listen." You say gesturing to her ear, and she is confused for just a second.

Next, she can hear her father outside the house, car noises, and something that sounds like complaints about a canceled dinner.

She looks at you again, and you are already kneeling on the bed to reach for her face.

"I'm just trying to keep you out of trouble." You explain as you caress her cheek. "I can't risk you getting grounded in this fancy mansion when I want to keep taking you out."

Her gaze glows hopeful. "You do?"

You smile, leaning in to kiss her intensely for a moment. "Of course I do." You assure her once you break the kiss, your gaze darkening afterward. "And I also want to come to your room, lie on your bed, and elicit all the delicious sounds you make when I kiss you."

Wanda chokes softly, leaning in to break the distance again, but you haven't offered her more than a peck, earning a grumble in return. "When are you going to kiss me again? For real."

"When do you want to?" you challenge back, and despite the pink of your cheeks, Wanda doesn't hesitate.

"Now."

You chuckle, pulling away. You open the door just before Erik comes up the stairs, and he grimaces, but you are already leaving the room. Before you do, you turn and offer a wink to Wanda, who once she is left in the room alone, sinks her face into her pillows, trying to make her heart stop beating so fast.

–//–

You wanted to take things slow with Wanda because in your experience, too fast burns and wears out at the same speed.

It is, however, quite difficult to keep your eyes off her.

Especially when she looks so irresistible in her cheer uniform.

"You're drooling." Yelena sneers beside you under the bleachers as you both skip chemistry class so she can smoke away from any teacher's attention.

"I definitely am." You retort without any concern, your gaze focused on the brunette from meters away. Yelena laughs dryly, taking a long drag on her cigarette.

"When are you going to make it official?"

"Why, so we can end up like Nat and Carol, fighting about the damn weather." You retort half impatiently, and Yelena hesitates a moment. She puffs smoke before answering.

"Carol cheated on Nat." She declares, and you gasp in surprise, looking at your friend with wide eyes. She shrugs her shoulders. "It was with a girl from State, at last year's championship. Nat tried to forgive her, but it''s been the same since summer. They're not fighting because of the weather, they're fighting because they're lying to each other."

You bite your tongue, turning your gaze back to Wanda in the field. She looks beautiful and giggles excitedly with her teammates when she gets her steps right.

"That doesn't make me feel confident about your suggestion, Lena." You murmur to her, and Yelena laughs lightly, taking one last drag before throwing the cigarette on the ground.

"Not every relationship sucks, Y/N." She begins. "Not everyone gets divorced like your parents, and not everyone cheats like my sister's girlfriend. Just look at me and Kate. I fucking love her, and I can't wait for us to be living in the same apartment."

You smile small. "I never said I loved anyone."

Yelena rolls her eyes, laughing softly. "It's in your face. And look where you are, simping over her while skipping class instead of doing anything else."

It's your turn to roll your eyes, a soft pink filling your cheek at being caught. "Shut up or I'll tell Kate you're looking for a place without her help."

Yelena laughs, "And I'll tell Maximoff that you're a stalker."

You grunt impatiently, leaving muttering that the field is a free-for-all, and missing the way Wanda looks through the rails to where you were sitting before.

As the weeks went by, and with the clear yet casual involvement between you, it was obvious to everyone how much influence you had in each other's lives.

You started showing up to more classes, and Wanda stole your leather jacket for her and learned to say no to her father when you learned to show up at family dinners.

She borrowed your clothes with the excuse that they smelled like you, and you brought home her classic DVDs almost every weekend.

And there was also a matching set of hickeys on your necks.

"Wanda, your father looks ready to blow up this car." You reminded her with a breathless giggle against her lips - because she insisted that you kiss her properly - before you dropped her off at home. She grunted impatiently, grabbing your chin so that you would take your attention away from the man with his arms crossed in the driveway, and focus on the girl sitting in the car seat gifted by your father after you said you had sent admission letters to colleges not so far from Wanda.

"I want to ask you something." She says, kissing you again briefly. "Do you want to sleep over at my place this weekend?"

You hum, kissing her again before retorting, "Is it some special occasion?"

She smiles, shaking her head. "Just missing you. And... it's the race finals weekend, so Dad and Pietro are traveling and we'll have the house to ourselves."

You choke softly, caught by surprise that it is Wanda suggesting such a thing. But she seems genuinely naive about it, waiting for your response.

"Hmm, and what would we do with the house to ourselves...?" You tease, rubbing your nose against hers and Wanda chuckles shyly, one hand going up to your neck.

"I suppose whatever we want." She replies, and you smile before kissing her again, this time goodbye.

–//–

It seemed to take a lifetime, but the weekend finally arrived.

Wanda doesn't know why she was so nervous. You had been alone before, between classes, at movie screenings, at snack bars, or bowling alleys.

But then she remembered the feeling of your lips pressing against hers, the panting whispers that made her skin itch, and the way her knees gave way when your hands got bold and she guessed she knew very well why.

She prepares a typical movie session, all the food, and comfy pillows, and you praise her for her dedication before pressing her against the bedroom door.

Wanda loves those hungry kisses - they heat up her body like a furnace, and always leave her wanting more. And today you seem willing to give her as much as she needs.

Your mouth parted from hers only to trail along her jaw, marking your way down and Wanda already panting, threw her head back against the wood, shivering under your rough touch around her body.

"I drove all the way down here thinking about kissing you, princess." You confess huskily against her ear, and Wanda blushes heavily, a low moan escaping her throat. "You're making me crazy, Wanda. I can't stop thinking about you."

"I think about you too." She confesses equally affected, only to gasp when you press a knee between her legs and everything burns, and she can't control the sounds that escape from there, not when you move your hands to her waist and make her grind against your thigh next. "Oh. That feels so nice..." She whimpers overwhelmed by the sensations, and you gently bite the sensitive spot on her neck.

"If you want something, you're going to have to ask for it." You whisper, and Wanda moans in response, her nails digging into your arms.

"Please, Y/N. I just need...you to touch me." She tries with her cheeks burning as much as the rest of her body, her hips never failing against your thigh and making you shiver.

"I'm all over you, pretty girl." You tease back, meeting her gaze and swallowing Wanda's breathless moans with your mouth with each movement of her hips. "Unless you want me to touch you somewhere else..."

"You know I want to." She retorts naughtily, and to that, you bite her lip, a gentle tug that makes her choke on a moan.

"Don't be a smart-ass." You warn, sliding a hand to her thigh to pull it up, and the adjustment makes Wanda see stars. "You can't even tell me to fuck your pussy."

She whimpers at the teasing, closing her eyes and throwing her forehead against your shoulder. You laugh smugly as the wetness begins to stain your pants.

"Baby, please..." She whimpers again, urging her body against you. Her hips are out of rhythm, and the covered stimulation is delicious, but still not enough. She just needs some kind of push that you seem to know what it is and won't grant her.

Instead of answering her, you grab her neck and kiss her hard, adjusting your body to hers until Wanda feels a hardness and jerks up with a surprised, affected squeal.

"It's a gift that I bought especially for you. if you're ready for it, of course." You clarify breathlessly, and she nods immediately, interlacing her hands behind your neck. But you kiss her slowly now and move your other hand down to lift Wanda between the door and your lap so that she now grinds directly against the strap instead of your thigh. She gasps in a whimper, meeting your eyes again as you break the kiss. " Fuck, you're so close and I haven't even touched you yet."

You were absolutely right. The knot in Wanda's belly was ready to explode at any moment, and when you slid your hand down to open your zipper, and the fake cock slipped out, the new pressure made Wanda growl hornily, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

You didn't penetrate her, letting her grind her covered intimacy against the toy until the moisture was enough to wet it. By now Wanda was jerking, holding you by the shoulders as you moved your hips against her. The strap pressed against her clit, sliding in a torturous back and forth over her covered pussy, and you seemed to be having the time of your life driving her to the brink of insanity with that tease.

"Y/N-fuck-I want-need it... inside-ah" She tried, delirious with anticipation, ever so close, and you panted softly in her ear.

"I love it when you cuss, it's so hot." You praise, slowing down and making Wanda moan loudly, her clit throbbing. "If you can ask me what you want, I'll do it."

Wanda whimpers affectedly, her cheeks blushing again. She is almost building up courage when you curse in her ear trapped in your own pleasure, and she is cumming instead of saying anything.

It is an overwhelming pleasure, almost terrifying her. She grabs you to keep from falling to the floor, dripping onto her panties. You grunt as you realize what has just happened and only give Wanda time to stop shaking before you get down on your knees.

"Babe, what are you...?" She falls silent as she chokes on her own breath, throwing her head back hard as her hips try to escape from your hands that hold her just for that. You press your nose against her covered intimacy, sniffing with a loud groan as Wanda whimpers. You don't give her time to complain before you move a hand to push the fabric away and sink your tongue into her.

Wanda practically screams, and you groan as you taste her. You fuck her messily, hungrily as you take your tongue between the folds of her pussy, pushing deep and then shallow to make her twitch, and when you suck on her clit she brings a hand to her hair.

"Oh-OH-blyat', tak khorosho!" Wanda gasps, and you groan as you hear her cursing in another language. It just encourages you to keep going, and this time, you won't stop until you get it out of her again.

It didn't take long - Wanda was sensitive and you only had to slide your tongue inside and suck her clit a few times for her to spill into your mouth with a long moan, her nails digging into your scalp. You moaned too, delighting in her taste and licking her clean before making your way up again.

"That was..." She tries breathlessly, her eyes lazy, and you smile, kissing her and making her grunt for her own taste before turning into a surprised yelp when you take her by the thighs and lift her onto your lap.

"We're not done, pretty girl." You clarify between kisses on the way to the bed. When you place Wanda on the mattress, her hair spreads across the pillow and she stares at you with dark eyes, her chest heaving. You pause, momentarily speechless as you realize how much you care for her.

"Everything okay?" She asks at your hesitation, and you smile immediately, nodding and moving closer to kiss her with intensity. Wanda melts, trying to pull you up but you gently push her by the shoulders.

She thinks to question, but your hand traces its way between her thighs and any question becomes an affected whimper.

"The toy is small, but I still need to stretch you with my fingers." You whisper with a naturalness that doesn't match the way Wanda blushes heavily. She merely nods, shivering under your fingers scratching and teasing around the inner part of her thighs. "You'll tell me if it hurts, won't you, pretty girl?"

She nods frantically, choking softly. "Y-yes, but please, just..." The teasing was driving her insane, your fingers only touching around, never where she desperately needed it. "Please, Y/N, touch me."

You shushed her gently, kissing the corner of her mouth and then her jaw, and when you got to her neck and started sucking on the sensitive spots that made her squirm on the bed, your fingers find her intimacy and penetrated her.

Wanda whimpered, closing her eyes tightly to the invasion. One at first, and then you slid out, and when you came back, two sank into her and she bit your shoulder.

"Tell me when you're ready." You whispered into her neck, moving your thumb to stimulate her clitoris, and Wanda throbbed beneath you. After two orgasms, she was really quite sensitive, but that only made it better. "Wands?"

She sighed, opening her eyes to find your worried ones. Instead of answering, she brought one hand to your cheek and another to the wrist connected between you. She brought your lips together at the same time she moved her hips, and you took the cue, sliding your fingers out and then in to find a rhythm.

Wanda whimpered once you got it, with each thrust she gasped at the kiss becoming harder to return, but once you felt her close again, you stopped.

She grunted confused and annoyed, but you adjusted before she could say anything, and any complaint broke down into an affected moan as you lined up the strap on her and sank in at once.

"Ah, I knew you could take it, pretty girl." You praised her, in a slow rhythm against her as Wanda squirmed and dug her nails into your back, desperate for more. "Damn, you look so beautiful now."

Wanda's moans mingled with the sounds of the thrusts inside her, the wetness of her pussy creating a delicious friction. You firmed your hands on her waist, pushing deeper, and she arched her back, ready to fall over the edge. You fell over her, hugging her and kissing the skin of her exposed collarbone, and Wanda whimpered, moaning under you.

She let out a little squeal, and her body tensed and you gasped against her neck as you came too, your juices mixing and dripping down her thighs.

You stood there for a moment, just breathing against each other as you calmed from your climax, and you smiled as you felt Wanda draw patterns on your back.

Unhurriedly, you moved off her, biting your lips at the image of the soaked toy and the sigh that left her lips as she felt empty before you pulled away.

Wanda looks at you expectantly at once, missing your body on top of her.

"Where are you going?" She asks in a half-hoarse voice, but you smile, now standing in front of the bed, you begin to remove your pants.

"You came three times and we didn't even get to take our clothes off. I'm kind of impressed." You humorously clarify, and Wanda giggles shyly, biting her lips as you take off your clothes in front of her. "How would you like to take a shower with me? And then, lend me something comfy so we can watch the movie you've picked up?"

She finds it incredible, honestly, but once you are completely naked in front of her, Wanda can only sigh and move closer again. She brings a hand to your neck and kisses you hard.

"Later. Now, I want you to do that thing with your tongue again." She asks with a sigh and well, it's not like you're going to complain.

–//–

You awoke to rays of sunlight on your face and a warm feeling on the tip of your stomach.

"Wands...oh...don't stop that." Your natural instinct was to call out to her, but it turned into something like a moan and a sigh as you felt the pleasure electrify your whole body at once. Wanda smiled against you, looking up at you as her hands held your thighs open for her. You squirmed on the mattress, barely finding time to grab her hair before you cum hard on her tongue. "Fuck, baby, that was amazing."

She giggles softly against you, kissing your thighs before moving up your body until she finds your mouth again. It takes a moment for you to recover from the orgasm and wake up properly, but when you do, your hands go around her and you spin Wanda around on the bed, getting on top quickly as she smiles.

"You're a fast learner." You comment against her jaw, tracing kisses downward. "I don't think I've ever cum so fast before..."

But suddenly, Wanda tenses and your hand guides your face back to her.

"I don't want to think about it." She says almost irritated, and you frown in confusion, "You with other people."

A smile breaks on your lips. " Hmm, is that right?"

But Wanda doesn't smile, sliding her legs between yours to switch positions and push you on your back on the bed, straddling your lap the next minute. Her hands at the side of your head, and her hair makes a curtain between your faces.

"I want you to be mine, Y/N. As I am yours." She whispers hoarsely, her gaze intense on yours. You blink impressed but are smiling.

"And who says I'm not already?" You challenge back, moving your hands to her hips and enjoying the feel of her intimacy against your thigh. Her breasts look incredible like this too, covered only by the half-open shirt of yours that she must have stolen during the night.

Wanda studies your face as she risks, "You never made us official, I thought..."

You bring a hand to her cheek as she lowers her head in shame. "Wands, and who says labels are the only thing that makes us official?"

Wanda shrugs, looking away, "I don't know, it's just that the cheer girls have their partners, and they're always talking about going to college together or buying apartments and-"

You straighten up, sitting up and pulling her closer.

"We'll do all that if that's what you want." You tell her with sincerity. "We'll go to NYU together, and rent an apartment. And I'll buy you a shiny ring so everyone will know we're together."

Wanda smiles, blushing as she wraps her arms around you.

"But what do you want?"

You smile warmly, brushing your nose against hers. "Sweetheart, I just want you." You retort caressing her skin. "I don't care about social norms, I just want to be able to kiss and wake up with you every day. If you want a ring, let's buy a ring. If you want to meet me in secret so as not to upset your father, I'll accept that too."

Wanda chuckles softly, pecking your jaw and then your lips.

"There's no way I'm keeping you a secret, you're the best thing that ever happened to me." She confesses and you kiss her, again and again until she starts to heat up on you, breathless whispers leaving her lips with each kiss.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me too, Wands." You retort to her before deepening the next kiss, and this time, you don't stop.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #elizabeth olsen x reader #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff smut #bottom!wanda #kinktober 2022

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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 11 months

Text

gevivys (beauty) │ Chapter 9: Bride

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: Daemon returns to King's Landing after ten years in exile, intent on rekindling his affair with Rhaenyra. He wasn't expecting you - the revelation changes everything.

Welcome to the penultimate chapter of the rework! This is a modified OG Chapter 6, with a couple mini flashbacks inserted. Sorry about the wait; turns out my HV was completely rubbish the first go around, so I’ve been pulling my hair out trying to translate properly. Thanks to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for giving her stamp of approval!

TRIGGERS: incest, purity culture, violence, age gap.

Daemon sees little of you in the weeks before the wedding.

Viserys, in his infinite wisdom, had elected to employ the services of the Rogue Prince in all matter of small duties and odd tasks, from assisting Strong in training with the City Watch to flying to the Reach and taking tea with the leeches of Highgarden. It is his punishment for daring to claim his precious child, his little beauty, ‘the People’s Princess’ or so you are called.

One of the worst experiences of his life thus far has to be meeting with Lord Tyrell in a lurid solar in the man’s equally-as-tasteless Keep, having to pretend as though he’s apologetic for beating his head in for daring to tarnish your name. Upon learning of the Crown’s intentions to expand trade with the region—a thinly-veiled endeavour to compensate for the now-crooked jaw and the scarring bisecting his right cheek—the lord had been all merriment.

Sycophantic fuck, Daemon had thought to himself at seeing Lord Denys’s disposition change, the disfigured flesh stretching repellently as he smiled affably at him. Trust House Tyrell to prioritise money over pride.

It was likely short-sighted of him to believe that the Hightower problem would go away once his brother had announced your marriage before the court. Since the day of the pronouncement, the Queen had been making sly jabs on the suitability of the match, from overly-polite enquiries as to the state of the residuals he had claimed from Runestone—”I do hope Lord Gerold was accommodating to your requests to receive the remaining funds from your late lady wife’s estate?”—to offhand remarks about the plight of childlessness that had plagued him in his previous union. Not that a child could ever grow in the septic chasm that was his bronze bitch’s womb, though he had admittedly never bothered to explore its rocky depths.

He had weathered the slights well enough, though he couldn’t help but to drop a few barbs about the son she was no doubt representing. Aegon is a perverted little twat if ever he had seen one—groping maids, fondling kitchen staff, and there are even rumours of him forcing himself on some unsuspecting common girl, though the tales vary widely and are exceedingly difficult to pin down.

I may be violent and brash, he thinks, but at least the women I bed come to me willingly.

Unfortunately, it seems as though the Queen has been whispering in Viserys’s ear when he is called to the Small Council chambers once more, this time with the full retinue present. He is surprised to see you in attendance, standing meekly at the foot of the table with eyes darting between the forms of your attending sister and the table.

It looks like an inquisition.

“Niece.” He strides forward and lays a kiss upon your brow in greeting, glaring out at his brother over the top of your head. You whisper a greeting in return, the sound fearful and taciturn in a way that he had not heard since the commencement of your reignited acquaintance. He addresses the wider audience sternly, who have shifted in discomfort at the liberties he has taken with you. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Daemon.” Viserys clears his throat uneasily. The Hightower bitch is thin-lipped beside him, and he is intrigued to note the thunderous expression on Rhaenyra’s face. Whatever this is, it isn’t good. “There have been… concerns… raised about your ability to—see through this marriage with my daughter.”

Now he knows the Hightower woman is involved.

“Oh, really?” Daemon asks quietly, dangerously. He can see Lyonel Strong swallow, resolutely avoiding staring at him or his little niece. “And by that I am taken to assume you mean my ability to bed her? Rest assured, brother—I’ll have no trouble at all on that account. Care for a demonstration?”

The occupants of the room shift guiltily as they exchange glances, and Daemon feels as though he is the butt of some unheard-of jest. He wonders what in the Seven hells is going on. Looking back at you, he sees you are equally as confused.

“It has been recommended to me by the Grand Maester that—so as to address this issue—we proceed with a… public… consummation,” Viserys says. Daemon finds it difficult to ascertain the tone. Guilt? Self-satisfaction? Whatever it is, it’s clearly warring in his brother’s mind, for the spasming of his features is bizarre to look upon. “The Small Council will bear witness to the evening’s… activities. Along with myself, the Queen and the heir.”

He cannot fucking believe his ears. For a moment, he is concerned he is having some kind of fit, or perhaps the madness of his bloodline has finally caught up with him. But the prolonged solemnity of the seated advisors, the stone-cold face of Rhaenyra and the guilty countenance of the Queen prove that his hearing is very much functional. His blood runs cold, then hot as he processes the words.

His impertinent comment seems suddenly ironic. It seems I’ll be demonstrating after all.

“A public consummation.” He shapes the words slowly, jaw clenched. Lord Tyland shifts nervously in his chair as he takes in what must be a truly deranged expression on his face. “Enlighten me”—his hand falls to the pommel of Dark Sister in feigned relaxation—“what precisely does that mean?”

This time, the old codger himself pipes up. Mellos, the balding fuck, has always disapproved of him. With a stern, unforgiving visage and a constantly disparaging nature, he is one among many, many maesters that Daemon can claim a healthy disrespect for. After the bungle the man had made of Baelon’s birth—dead child, dead mother, and naught to say for his learned experience save for ruined sheets and the encroaching decay of mortality—it was even more difficult to trust the man.

“You will wed the Princess,” he says superciliously. Daemon chafes at the obvious implication that he is somehow unintelligent for asking what the fuck he is thinking. “You will attend the festivities, and you will perform the bedding ceremony; after which, the Small Council will adjourn into the marital chamber behind a screen, view the consummation, and confirm it took place through examination of the linen.”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Daemon actively battles the urge to unsheathe his sword and run Mellos through.

He cannot believe the insanity of what has been asked of you. He cares markedly less for his own welfare—after a three-year war in the Stepstones, one learned not to be too choosy about where and in front of whom to bed a woman, taking any opportunity to achieve a quick release before battle called once more. It is an outrage. It is an insult.

He ought to have expected it. His brother really had capitulated too easily. Now he understands why.

“When did I offer you a choice?” Viserys asks, brow raised. He almost looks as though he is prepared to laugh, but perhaps he too is feeling the flush of Targaryen madness in him at the discussion being forced to take place. “You never lay with Lady Rhea. I’ll not give my daughter to you so you can squander two Targaryen lines.”

When Rhea had been alive, he’d never once tried to stick his cock in her. Too plain, features too drab and form too shapeless—and that is physicality alone. She’d been much worse in character, sneering and conceited, though she had little cause. Runestone was no Dragonstone, nor is it comparable to the capital. He had honestly been concerned the razor-teeth surely lining her cunt would bite his appendage clean off. A thoroughly unpleasant shrew, an utter waste of woman—the most enjoyment he ever received from her was the sight of her brain spilling out of her cracked skull as she lay dying in the fields of the Vale, twitching and gurgling.

“So this is your brilliant solution? Having everyone watch? Inspecting her afterward, as though she’s some brothel whore? What—do you want to traumatise the girl?”

He cannot look at you, cannot bear to see the fear on your face, though he enjoys the discomfited looks shared amongst the Small Council at the crassness of his words, the resigned indignation of the Hightower woman and the barely-veiled fury of his eldest niece. Good. The attending Kingsguard—Ser Willis Fell and Ser Steffon Darklyn—straighten watchfully, hands falling to rest on their pommels to match his own disposition.

Lyonel Strong straightens in his seat, seeming eager to resolve the issue through artless placation. “Prince Daemon—”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Lord Hand,” Daemon snaps. He doesn’t give a fuck about what prosaicisms Lord Strong could possibly offer.

“It is a revival of Targaryen tradition.” Mellos clears his throat. “One that saw the reigning King’s…er, virility… proven to all those who denied it. This is the only—”

“Maegor?” His vexation turns to fury. “You want to reinstate a practice begun by Maegor?”

Long has his reputation been compared to that of his grandfather’s despotic uncle. It is terribly ironic that the custom Maegor had instituted on the eve of his wedding to his Black Brides would be reintroduced for his own ceremony.

He may have needed to prove his cock worked, Daemon thinks irately, but I certainly don’t.

This is not what he voices aloud. “I already have the blade”—his grip tightens on Dark Sister—“so I suppose you may as well name me ‘Daemon the Cruel’ and be done with it.”

Lyman Beesbury flinches; Viserys sighs. It is then that you step forward, timidly reaching out and touching his arm.

“Kepus,” you whisper. When he hushes you, you continue louder, more forcefully, carefully measuring your words in the tongue of your ancestors. “Aōle jikāks arlī daor. Līr jaelzi gaomās.” Don’t get yourself sent away again. Just do what they want.

He is furious at the fact that you are so used to having the wills of others exerted over you that you make no protest of this barbaric demand. Instead, you urge him to concede. He cannot help but to direct his irritation towards you.

When he angrily asks you if you’d actually like to be fucked with the entire Council watching, your rejoinder is swift but even. I am not the one you are angry at, you say, and it is true. Of all the people in this fucking room, it is you who deserves his rage the least. A wave of guilt washes over him when he considers the rudeness of his words.

He has to leave. If he doesn’t, he’ll say something downright insulting or potentially threatening, and he cannot afford to be exiled again. Not with the wedding looming so close—not when everything he has worked for is within close reach.

“Fine.” He huffs as he turns to face the Council once more. “This is not over. And fuck you very much for this little suggestion,” he says, pointing at Mellos. “I’d watch myself if I were you.”

He can hear the sounds of Viserys calling him back, of Mellos sputtering some indignant horseshit. He knocks lightly into Cole’s shoulder as he exits the room, the heavy door slamming loudly shut as he stalks off.

Daemon’s footsteps lead him to the yard, where the Strong boy’s second-in-command— a truly beastly figure by the name of Luthor Largent—is running training exercises with the City Watch.

He slumps against the wall, arms folded, watching with dark eyes and stormy thoughts as the man runs a truly merciless regime, shouting abuse at the stragglers who fall behind. Easily approaching seven feet in height, the captain is a fearsome grizzled warrior, a soldier who strikes fear into the hearts of the scum of King’s Landing. He had employed the man during his own tenure, selecting him from over a dozen contenders from the crownlands. It is a personal source of pride to see him prosper within the brotherhood.

The City Watch has flourished in his time away. He is irritated by the fact that he is forced to admit this—that the Strong lad has been a worthy enough successor to his former post as Commander.

It is some time later that he is approached by the man himself, Harwin Breakbones in his practical burnished armour and gold cloak. The man sits a small distance away from him and feigns careful examination of his subordinates, though it is clear his purpose has more to do with him than his post.

“Prince Daemon.” His growling gravel sets Daemon’s teeth on edge. Just because he’s accepted the man’s place in Rhaenyra’s life doesn’t mean he has to like his presence.

He sighs. “Ser Harwin.” He smirks when Largent tosses one of the new recruits clean over his back, sending the soldier sprawling and groaning in the dirt. He continues, still affecting ignorance and watching the display before him. No use in drawing this out. “What can I do for you?”

“I bring a message from the Lord Hand.”

Daemon’s eyes briefly flick to his companion before returning to the training. There are eyes all over the Red Keep, and it wouldn’t do to give any potential enemies ammunition.

“I had thought the Lord Hand was rather displeased with you at present—seems I was mistaken.” He sneers as he gives voice to the rumours that Lord Lyonel had rather comprehensively chastised his son for the constant speculation regarding the paternity of Rhaenyra’s children.

Secret conversations do not stay secret for long in King’s Landing.

Strong grunts, a displeased concession. “If you would prefer I keep his words to myself, I’ll depart post-haste, my Prince.”

The cheek of him. It startles a laugh from Daemon, and he decides that perhaps it is worth listening to the lad after all.

“Very good.” He glances to Strong. “Well, then. Give me this message.”

“The white raven is in the pocket of the watchtower,” Strong says, and Daemon’s nose wrinkles as he ponders the words.

White raven, white raven… white ravens, Isle of Ravens, the Citadel—Maester. Watchtower—clearly ‘Hightower’.

The maester is in the pocket of Hightower.

It is clear that this has something to do with the old fuck’s grand idea to exact humiliation upon him and his little niece. Daemon’s jaw works as he contemplates the revelation. There’s little possibility that the Queen would govern the loyalty of the Grand Maester so coldly. Not only is she not nearly good enough at pretending perturbation as she had done in the Small Council, but he also doubts she would be willing to inflict such distress upon you. Nothing he has seen of your acquaintance would lead him to this conclusion.

But old Otto… an ambitious cunt, a man whose grandson holds a very legitimate claim to the Seven Kingdoms, a claim that is superseded only by the King’s declaration that his daughter will succeed him as heir. Such a man is capable of this. He has little doubt that the slimy fuck has been plotting behind the scenes ever since his removal from office. And, if the King’s daughter should only produce bastards—gossip that could very easily be proven correct in the right circumstances—precedent suggests that the next in line is… you. The People’s Princess, you are loved and respected by many, and you are far less personally objectionable than Aegon.

You are also to be his wife.

He is clearly not alone in realising how advantageous your impending match would be in shoring up the succession and preventing the Hightowers from acceding to the Iron Throne. It suddenly makes a twisted sort of sense. Popular opinion had long held that Daemon had cooled toward Rhea due to how zealously he was forced to her bed on the wedding night. To devise a public spectacle such as this in the hopes that it would foster resentment between you and he, prevent the solidification of the union before it can flourish…

It is absurd. It is underhanded. It is clever. A valiant attempt at engendering disharmony in conceivably the most significant blow to his ambition since the disgraced man had slunk from court, badge of the Hand firmly pinned to the lapel of another.

“Thank you, Ser Harwin,” he says. “I will remember your loyalty, and your father’s, when the time comes.”

The man nods. A brief look passes between them. It seems Breakbones and the Lord Hand have value after all. Perhaps he had been unwise to dismiss them so quickly.

He pushes himself off the wall and treads leisurely back into the Keep in search of you, making careful effort not to appear hasty or distempered lest prying eyes should report this to Oldtown.

Otto really does spend too much time thinking about my cock, Daemon thinks wryly.

It is not the first protestation the man has had about his carnal exploits. Still, the dilemma is evident. Either he continues to protest the atrocity being demanded of you, to kick up a fuss and demand the respect you are both owed as Prince and Princess of the Realm, or he swallows his dignity and his wrath and he removes the lord’s power over the circumstances by… letting it happen.

Obviously, he ought to proceed with the latter. This is the surest way to foil Hightower’s plot, at least for the time being. But the thought of how frightening you would find it, his sweet little untried niece, to have your despoilment on exhibit for the Council’s sick satisfaction is a preoccupation that he must speak with you on before he makes any decision.

He finds you in Laena Velaryon’s apartments of all places, the series of rooms that she shares with her husband and children. The lady opens the door herself when he knocks, white hair untamed and loose, framing her head with dense coils that set off appealingly against her dark skin.

She is rather fetching—he’d always thought so. Daemon had even gone so far as to ask for her hand some years ago. In light of his upcoming nuptials, he cannot say he is too aggrieved that Rhaenys and Corlys had rebuffed him then, for you are an infinitely superior match. The woman is cradling the swell of her belly, a grimace of effort upon her face. He supposes the weight of the growing babe is beginning to exact its toll on her. Behind her, he can hear the sounds of bickering.

“My Prince,” Laena breathes, rubbing her distended middle with a small frown. “What might I assist you with?”

“Lady Strong,” he greets. After asking if you are present in her chambers, he is gratified when she nods, obligingly stepping back and widening the entrance so that he may step through.

You are standing over the glowering forms of the seated Jacaerys and Lucerys, Laenor beside you with arms crossed and a stern bearing. Across from Rhaenyra’s sons sit the identical forms of two young girls—he can only assume these are Ser Breakbones’s daughters, the twins Baela and Rhaena—one of whom is failing to conceal the cast of despondency from showing, the other with her arm thrown around her sister in comfort.

“It was unnecessarily cruel,” you are saying, a look of such disappointment on your face that even he feels the urge to quail. “You did not think about how awful it must feel for Aemond to be without a dragon, and nor did you consider how your actions might have made Rhaena feel.”

Ah, yes, he thinks, recalling a snippet of memory. The Strong girls had been gifted dragon eggs at Rhaenyra’s request—though one had yet to hatch.

“It was Aegon’s idea,” Jace says, his countenance more contrite than his words suggest. Tears have welled in Luke’s eyes.

Laenor scoffs. “And if Aegon had the idea to freefall from dragonback—would you do that, too? Use your sense, boy.”

He kneels down to crouch before his sons in all but blood, casting his hand through the boys’ dark hair comfortingly as the younger begins to cry. “I am unimpressed with your behaviour, but I understand what it is to be led into making a mistake. You will apologise to Aemond, and I will be discussing with your mother how you will be making reparations for this deed.”

Jace nods seriously, and Luke sniffles.

“You should also apologise to Rhaena, boys,” you add, eyes flicking guardedly to Daemon as you register his presence. You pat their shoulders as they sidle past you to hug Laena’s children, smiling faintly at the endearing sight the foursome make.

Before making your way to him, you whisper something unknown to Laenor; the man’s gaze snaps to Daemon. He nods once in acknowledgement, though that same tightening around the eyes remains, a sign that he—like so many others—is yet to truly accept Daemon’s claim of you.

Laenor had been vexed by the news of your impending union, sidling up beside him for but a moment to whisper a mild-mannered threat while the court gathered themselves. “I’d threaten you,” he’d said, slapping his back a little too hard, “but I think whatever Rhaenyra is likely to have said to you will have a far more frightening consequence. Just know I’ll be looking out for her—and watching you.”

He is glad you have the love of your family, a feat not easily won in the divided House of the Dragon. He supposes Laenor’s pledge will be tested soon—as Rhaenyra’s Prince Consort, he’s likely to be one of several to watch the wedding night’s proceedings.

Daemon follows you out of the room, tipping his head briefly in farewell to Lady Strong as he departs. He turns to you. You are staring up at him watchfully, hands clasped together, a vision of piety in your high-collared gown.

“Are you well, Uncle?” you ask him, gentle and guileless.

His mouth quirks at the query. It is sweet and charming and utterly like yourself to be concerned for his welfare in light of the command levied by the King upon you both.

“I’m fine, sweetling.” He reaches for your small hand to draw it under and around his arm, securing your hold on his frame before initiating a slow walk to your younger sister’s apartments.

He has become familiar with your weekly visiting schedule over the weeks—Rhaenyra, Laena, Helaena, Viserys and Alicent, Ser Lysan—a repeated cycle of teas and books and chatter. It is surely your unsettling Hightower sister you are proceeding to next, and you make no protest at the direction his steps are leading you in.

He allows his gaze to settle on you once more. “I’m not concerned for myself. But I am concerned for you. How are you feeling?”

“Qrīdrolaks iksan.” I am confused, you say, switching to your native tongue as you pass a busy intersection of the Keep and glancing nervously at the ogling of the courtiers. It has been three sennights since the announcement, two days until your wedding, and still the news preoccupies the residents of King’s Landing like no other. “Mīvindiks. Yn ñuhe gaomilaksir gaominna.” Frustrated. But I will perform my duty.

“Lo zūgā, kepa aōha qubroti jās ivestrinna.” He steers you up the staircase, looking down at you in concern. If you’re afraid, I will tell your father to fuck off.

You giggle, squeezing his arm in amused admonition. The gravity returns to your countenance as the laughter dies off.

“Daor.” You sigh. “Lo bonir gaomā, ponte ērinis. Kesir tatinna, kepus.” No—if you do that, they win. I will see this done, Uncle.

His brave, brave girl. Though the remark is decisive and firm, the way in which your lower lip quivers as the words escape belies the trepidation you are surely feeling.

You straighten, swallowing and looking straight ahead as you approach the so-called Hightower wing of the Keep that is named for its occupying residents. “Zaldrīzesse biādroti zūgusy daor.” Dragons do not fear sheep.

An admirable sentiment. But he must make certain before he allows this to happen.

“Pōnto syt gaomagon bēvilō daor—lo epō, qogrondi ossēninna.” You don’t have to perform for them—I will slaughter the bunch if you ask.

He almost hopes you will take him up on it.

You dig your heels in lightly when you reach an entrance, the door to the chambers left ajar. Inside, he can see a sliver of pale hair and the inane mutterings of the witchling, light and nonsensical. You are one of few individuals that can draw the girl to the realm outside her mind.

You shake your head at him, declining his offer. He wonders if you believe him to be jesting. He is not.

“Ynot mīsilā,” you murmur, and it makes his chest tighten. You will protect me.

He can count on a single hand the number of times in his life he had been the recipient of such belief. It is so simple a statement, and yet so profound. Watchful, mistrusting girl that you are, he is pleased to receive such an avowal of faith in him. He hopes that he will deserve it.

You tiptoe to lay a sweetheart kiss upon his cheek, blushing scarlet as you dart into the room and close the door, a bold ingenue teasing at her suitor. He chuckles at your shy seduction as he ventures off to his room to ponder the plot that has been unveiled.

If Viserys wishes to watch the bedding—if Otto wants to wage war on his marriage—then let him, he thinks to himself ruthlessly.

Let them bear witness to the power your union will wield; let them see and be afraid.

After all—dragons do not fear sheep.

In many respects, the wedding ceremony is every bit as typical as any other ritual undertaken in the Sept. As he had predicted, there is far too much droning from Septon Eustace, far too much incense and far too many spectators. He shall have to commence talks with the High Priest to arrange for a Valyrian rite.

You are darling in a high-collared gown of white and precious metal, sworls of gold and silver latticed in conformation to the shape of your waist and bust, decorating the sleeves and ends. Rubies and other priceless jewels glitter among the openwork, fashioning a picture of might and wealth. He’s gratified to see the Valyrian steel necklace he gifted you around your throat, and it serves almost as a divide separating your bare skin from the fabric.

You’d favoured these gauzy sort of dresses as a girl, too.

“Mama! Mama, do you like it?” you ask, handfuls of skirt clutched in plump fists as you sway from side to side, beaming at your reflection.

“Beautiful, my dearest!” Aemma laughs at your happy little wiggle, hand pressed to her belly. This babe is a boy, or so she’d told Daemon, and a rather active one at that. She winces, presumably from yet another movement of the child tumbling about in her womb. “Is it what you wanted?”

You nod enthusiastically. “I love it!” Your eyes meet his through the mirror. “Kepus! Do you—do you like it too?”

Truthfully, you look a little too similar to those iced cakes you enjoy, puffed and pastel and thoroughly impractical. But Aemma is correct; you are beautiful. With your silver hair curling strikingly against its backdrop of pale sky and your cheeks rounded and flush with your joy, how can you be anything but?

“Lovely,” he says from his place by the door, unfolding his arms and standing tall. “Ready for your celebration?”

At the reminder, you gasp like a common street performer, revolving on spun heel to dart to the exit. You are getting quicker by the day, and so he is only just able to catch you around the arm as you bolt through the small opening and into the hall. You squeal as he swings you up and onto his hip, tiny arms winding in a near chokehold around his neck.

“Yes! Yes!” You are exultant, the high sound of your voice piercing in his ears. Your legs kick out at his side for good measure. “Happy name day to me!”

Daemon swallows against the dryness in his mouth. She looks nothing like a cake now.

He is struck by the urge to lay you across the altar and give the Seven Kingdoms something to really talk about. His bashful princess, so precious, so demure, so clearly eager to be corrupted—and he is all too willing to do the spoiling.

“I am yours and you are mine, from this day, until the end of my days.” Your voices mingle in the chamber, a pleasing amalgamation of high and low.

The Septon finally—finally—gives him leave to kiss his bride, and he savours the gentle touch of your lips against his, no more than a ghostly graze of skin against skin. You are soft and sweet in his hold, and it is with exultation that he leads you down the aisle as his lady wife.

Your ladies rush forward to help gather your skirts as you stop him uncertainly at the top of the stairs. You clutch his proffered hand with a grateful smile, leaning on his support as you journey down to the courtyard from where you will make your way across to the Great Hall.

The seating arrangement had caused some headache during planning, he knows. That is the issue with Targaryen intermarriage—when husband and wife share the same family, whom do they assign as representatives for each? In the end, it had been decided that Viserys would sit next to you, with Alicent and the Lord Hand rounding out the left side of the royal table. On the other side, Rhaenyra was to be installed beside Daemon, Laenor completing the row at the end. He is thankful for the arrangement, having no desire to sit beside his brother. The King is still surly and aggrieved by the entire thing, but had miraculously—and for a reason unknown to him—conceded to your preference and acquiesced to the match.

At the first feast following the ceremony, it is custom for the wedded pair to remain seated as the guests dance. This forces Daemon to make conversation with an occupied Rhaenyra—busy watching her oldest child like a hawk on one of the auxiliary tables beside Ser Harwin, a move that had set afresh new gossip—or a drunken Laenor, or dodging the gaze of Viserys.

You are quiet and withdrawn, though affecting a facade of genteel delight, and it is no wonder. With the prospect of the bedding ceremony looming—a ridiculous tradition in which the wedded pair were stripped by the crowd and carried undressed to their bed—and the further ignobility of an exposed consummation, you are likely to feel quite traumatised already.

Sitting beside him in your pretty little wedding gown, he is discomfited by the recurrence of memory once more.

A tugging at his shirt distracts him from his goal.

“What?” he barks. The sound of a sniffle draws his attention down.

You stand in your name day dress, skirts as frightfully fluffy as ever, only your expression is drawn into a scowl and your eyes are rimmed red. With a sigh, he steps away from his latest liaison—Lord Crane’s wife, or is it his daughter?—and dismisses her with a careless wave of the hand. She scurries off, lips bruised and hair ruffled and thoroughly indignant, though he cannot confess to care overmuch for her feelings.

He stoops before you. “What is it, sweetling?”

You pout, rubbing a sticky hand over your face. Your mouth is smeared with icing, he notes with some amusement. “There is too much—too much people here, kepus. I don’t like it.”

“Too many,” he corrects automatically, brushing stray strands out of your face. He frowns, grabbing you by the shoulders when you lean into him. “All those guests, hm?” he asks, attempting to distract you from the flood of tears that is no doubt on its way. “Awfully loud for my little princess, too, I wager. Want to leave?”

“Uh-huh.” Your palm trails a path of sugar-paste over his doublet and flexes in the fabric, your gaze shifting from his and slightly to the left. He takes hold of your wrist before your fingers can make their way into his hair. “I’m tired.”

Good girl. It had been a struggle for the ages to have you admit to such a thing until recently. He used to have to hold the blankets firm over you until you ceased your caterwauling, stubborn tot desperate to stay up just a little longer—but against his strength, you were no match. And now, here you are, conceding your fatigue with no prompting whatsoever. You are growing up, and the prospect fills him with a bittersweet gladness.

“Alright, then.”

He lifts you under your arms and strides down the empty halls. Your head settles into the crook of his neck, nose snuffling against his flesh, and he savours the doll-sized warmth of you in his embrace for just a little while longer.

You never did enjoy crowds. He cannot imagine you are at ease now.

When the call for the bedding springs up from within the crowd, he rises and turns to you. “Come, sweetling,” he tells you, taking your hand. “We’d best leave now.”

You are already flushing, uncertain. He can feel Laenor glaring at the back of his neck.

“Daemon!” Viserys is reddened with excitement and beaming. “can you not hear the noise? It’s time for the bedding!”

He is deep within his cups, swept along by the conviviality of the hall, the loud chatter and spirited guffaws comprising the din. He has not absorbed his brother’s stance as of yet, severe and uncompromising.

“There will be no bedding,” he says, tugging you to your feet. You follow pliantly, brows furrowed and worrying at your bottom lip.

“We agreed, brother!” The King’s face displays the slow-dawning comprehension of a man who has realised that the groom is prepared to make a scene at his own wedding feast. And he is.

He cares not who he must murder in order to convey you to your rooms untouched by other men. You are his.

“No.” He smiles through gritted teeth. “You decided. Don’t worry, brother. You’ll get your spectacle, but my niece will not endure any further debasement this night.”

He lightly fingers the knife attached to his hip, watching Viserys’s eyes flicker between the motion and his fixed expression. Meanwhile, the Hightower bitch is dabbing at the corners of her mouth with cloth, a poor pretence at ignorance. His brother forces an exhalation, no doubt resigned and irked by yet another display of defiance.

“Fine,” he says. “No bedding.”

“Good.”

You brighten imperceptibly at his words, quickly taking his arm and allowing him to walk you through the hall to the entry before your father can change his mind. The nettled grumbles begin in the chamber behind you as the King announces the news.

“Thank you,” you breathe, a relieved half-grimace painting your features.

“Of course,” he says, leading you up the grand staircase to your marital chambers.

Despite everything—despite the knowledge of Otto’s hand in your union and the expectation of what is to come, despite your obvious apprehension and the role he is forced to play in it—he cannot help his excitement.

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websterss · 9 months

Text

𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 — 𝐖𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐓𝐓

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You want to hate her, but hate that you can't blame her. She has Wes's heart something you’ve longed for.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒): purely angst

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2,088

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Wes Bennett & fem!Reader

𝐀/𝐍: I hope you enjoy it! I'm being extremely harsh on my writing rn so this might seem good to you but I'm critiquing this piece so much! Also, Olivia Rodrigo has a hold on me bad rn. Inspired by 'Lacy'.

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

You couldn't pinpoint when exactly you let yourself be heartbroken for a boy, a boy who didn't even know just how much you longed to have his heart. To want him to see you and look at you like he did at Liz. Like you hung the stars in the sky. But he never did...he wouldn't cause his heart beat for her, and there was nothing you could do but let him go.

"What are you doing out here?" You look up to find Wes making his way over to you.

"Trying to understand why prom is considered this penultimate high school rite of passage..." You blow a raspberry.

"And?" Wes plops right on down beside you.

"It's not. If anything it's overhyped. I mean hours spent poring over makeup tutorials, fingering elegant ball gowns at the mall until you find the right one, and visualizing how the night will potentially play out. It's overwhelming. And don't get me started on the obnoxious public proposals in front of the whole school. What rite of passage is it? We're conditioned to obsess about how we look, how our hair is done, how our nails are shaped, and whether we'll have some eye candy on our arm when we walk through the front doors. They make it seem like if you don't attend you miss out. Well, I'm here...what am I missing?" You gesture to the double doors. Wes frowned, his head dipped as he looked over to meet your clearly broken expression. You were troubled, he could tell by the way you overthought about something, this something being prom.

"Can I give my two cents?" He wanted to test the waters. Not wanting to further ruin your already bad mood.

"Will it contradict my running argument about Prom?" Your voice comes out softer than you imagined it to.

"It might, but I won't if it'll upset you again." He admitted.

"You can proceed..." You mutter anxiously.

"I don't see it as this rite of passage okay? Coming to prom, I didn't have this structured idea in mind that I was gonna become this new person. If anything's overhyped it's thinking you have to have sex on this one night. Certainly not what I was aiming for tonight. If anything...I'm just happy we all got to be in the same room one last time. Things haven't been so great within the group, but tonight, for just this one night, we all let our guards down and are spending it together. We're surrounded by all our friends whom we love, and having a great night. Well, not everyone..." He smirked, nudging you with his elbow gently. You rolled your eyes at him. "You wanna tell me the real reason you're sitting out here alone and not inside." This makes you scoff in shock. You let your shoulders slouch forward in defeat.

Of course, he read right through me.

“What gave me away?” You hum in amusement.

“You’ve been planning for this night since second grade after your mom told you about it.”

Oh right. That she did.

“If we’re being honest about how this night has been for us.” You exhale deeply. You rub your hands up and down your calves. Your skin feels cold to the touch. “You may not have had a structured idea in mind, but I did. I played out this ideal visualization of how the night would potentially play out, but turns out obstructed ideas just stay that…silly little ideas.” You laugh out nervously. “It hasn’t been all sunshine and rainbows for me tonight, and it’s not going to be.”

“Can you tell me?” The edges of his mouth curled downward once more. You made it your goal to never have to see him frown again right then and there.

“No.” Your saddened smile was written with a taste of acceptance. Sitting with him, talking to him, and gracious for his attentiveness. The way he always listened and never interrupted you, or anyone for that matter. Made you realize that you’d never have his heart wholeheartedly, only momentarily.

“Why not?” He gave a shrug. The laugh he released weighed heavily against your ears.

“Cause it’d change everything.”

“Change everything? What do you mean?” His brows furrowed.

“N-Nothing.” You started fidgeting with your fingers. Finding it difficult to let your gaze fall on his this time.

“Hey, don’t do that.” He pushed. Not wanting you to close off on him.

“We should head back inside the group is probably wondering where we are?” You looked over your shoulder. Yet the grab of your shoulder brought your attention back onto him.

“What aren’t you telling me?” His brows were knitted in thought. Wondering what the hell you meant by it’d change everything.

“Nothing. I said everything I wanted to say.” You smile but it does nothing to convince him, especially with the bullshit of an answer you just gave him.

“Y/n, I’m serious-“

“Hey, you two. There you are, been looking all over for you!” Your heads whip over your shoulder. Liz standing against the pushed door. Her smile was as radiant and pretty as the white gown she dawned for this evening. The moonlight made her red hair stand out against her pale skin. She looked ethereal. Seeing her stand there, made you immediately realize the real reason you came out here in the first place. Your envy and admiration of her took control of your mind and if you stayed inside any longer than you did, you would have given into every impulsive decision, good or bad. You turn your head and let your eyes lock onto his. You hoped he hadn’t noticed the shift in your demeanor. The way your eyes lost their light in them. You forgot how to breathe for that mere second your eyes met. You would have risked it all. Confessed all your troubling insecurities and hopes and desires. Yet for the sake of your own sanity, for the sake of not wanting to get in between them, you looked away and averted your attention to the redhead waiting on you. You mustered up your courage and stood up.

“Hey, Libby Loo. Just needed some fresh air. It was getting kind of hot in there.”

“Oh tell me about it!” She agreed. You walked over to where she stood, taking over holding the door. “What were you two talking about?” You heard the underlying tone of her insecurities build up. You found it within the nervous laugh she emitted.

“Debate over whether prom is this rite of passage or a total waste of time.” It fell past your lips so easily, that it shocked you. Liz physically relaxed. The roll of her eyes made you ease up. She didn’t think you and Wes were having a moment just then. Phew.

“Of course you were. Well all-knowing, obviously a rite of passage, right?”

“Yeah…obviously, been planning for this since second grade. Not a waste of time…at all.” You smirk. You let your gaze linger back to Wes where he caught you in your own lie again. Shaken by his disappointment. You exchange spots with her. Liz now lingering out the door, and you, ready to run away again. You weren’t a stranger to her newfound affection for the jock standing a few feet away with his hands in his slacks. It took her long enough to fall for him, but Wes was willing to wait this long for her…and now he was finally getting her emotionally and physically. And you, you were losing everything you’ve never had a chance to have.

“I’m gonna head back inside now. Do you know if there’s still any punch left?” You begin to excuse yourself.

“I think one of the boys spiked it.” Liz made a face.

“Great…” You sighed. “Well, I’ll see you two in there.” You playfully nudge her, stepping past the threshold and beginning the dark trek to the gym.

“Hi…”

“Hi.”

You didn’t even want to spare them a second glance, knowing just how your heart would shatter in an instant and you knew you wouldn’t recover from it.

You let the quietness embrace you like a hug. It let you hear just how loud your thoughts were going. It gave you a moment to recollect yourself before you had to face everyone again and pretend that you weren’t in a demise because you didn’t go after what you wanted. You were about to turn the corner when the loud pull of the metal door opened behind you. You would have kept walking were it not for the rapid footsteps booking it down the hall. And you wouldn’t have frozen in place were it not for the exclaim of your name.

“Y/n!” Your breath hitched hearing his voice. “You didn’t turn around, too scared, not wanting to bear whatever he came after you to tell you. “You didn’t answer me. What would change?”

Your shoulders grew rigid and tense, then and only then did you slowly turn and face him. Expectedly and curious eyes he had.

His shoulders slumped seeing a tear fall down your cheek. He still pushed for an answer. He gives for anything really.

“What would change?”

Us.

You would have answered, you’d have given him an answer. You would have given him a reason, but your burden had walked in a minute after he did. You go to speak but your mouth stays open, at a loss for words, to cross the line of friendship you’ve been straddling for years. Wes follows your line of sight and there she is. Everything he’s ever wanted, right in front of him, yet as he looks back at you, you stare at her like she’s anything but his everything. Then you stare at him and it’s like he’s your…He knew that look, all too familiar of sporting it when he tried to help Liz get with Michael. A hopeless feeling that you can’t have the one person you want most. The frown happens before he speaks.

You pick up on the way the air feels a lot more tense. The way he straightens up and the shift in his eyes as he looks between you and Liz. The line was crossed and you wished to have stayed on the opposite side of it.

“Y/n…” He sighs heavily.

“Please don’t.” You give a tight-lipped smile. The tears spilling out faster than you can wipe them away. “Please don’t…I’m okay. I know…and I’m aware. So please for my sake just don’t.”

“Can I give my two cents?” He pleads.

“No.” You smile again. Shaking your head, closing yourself off, and wishing you could be under your bed covers right about now.

“I’m so sorry.” He says defeat was written over his face.

“You guys enjoy your night okay.” You nod and begin walking backwards.

“Y/n are you okay?” Liz finally walks over. Her concern warms you and makes you want to punch her in the face.

“Yeah Libby Loo, just feeling a bit under the weather. I think I'm gonna head on home.” You laugh out loud nervously. Still walking painfully slow, and backwards.

“Well hold on, we can give you a ride.” God you really wanted to punch her.

“No Libby it’s okay. I’ll make do. Really? I’ll be fine. Like always…” You say the last bit quietly, yet they don’t miss it. Wes looks on the verge of crying and Liz concerned about your well-being is starting to make you really feel sick.

“You sure?” She frowns. Not at all convinced with the way your smile isn’t even reaching your eyes anymore. You weren’t even hiding it.

“Y/n-“ Wes tried again. But you shake your head.

“You kids have fun okay.” This time your smile does reach your eyes and then you turn around and make your leave. You can’t even be mad at Liz because she didn’t do anything wrong and you hate her for it.

“Y/n!” Wes yells after you but you don’t react, nor do you turn around. The effect he has on you starts wearing off and the ache in your chest slowly diminishes into nothing the further you get from them. And you can’t even be mad about it.

“What did you do?” Liz smacked him. He didn’t even flinch. “She was fine a few minutes ago!”

“No…she wasn’t.” Wes watched solemnly as your figure finally rounded the corner and you were no longer in his sights.

#wes bennett #wes bennett imagines #wes bennett imagine #wes bennett x reader #wes bennett oneshot #wes bennett x fem!reader #bttm imagines #bttm x reader #better than the movies #better than the movies imagines #my gif #writings by juls

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mariamariquinha · 6 months

Text

Versos de Placer (Colonel Carrillo x f!reader) - Thirteen (Part 2)

Summary: The void.

Word count: 7.6k

Warnings: Bad words, violence, ~ daddy issues ~, smut, unprotected p in v sex, slight mentions of political conditions from the period, trauma, nightmares, people drinking alcohol, feelings and angst 🤷‍♀️

Author’s Note: I will admit that I am VERY lazy about editing long chapters, so I will always point out that there may be some spelling mistakes. Trust me, sometimes it’s tiring to think in Portuguese and write in English.

This had a very firm direction even before writing, so after a long time, I announce that this is our penultimate chapter. I'm very tired, as you already know, and multi-chapter stories take longer and require more energy, which I've been lacking in recent months.

Either way, it's been an amazing journey! I will be very sad to close, but happy to know that I did something that means something to me. See you in the last chapter!

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

Join my taglist! Don’t forget to reblog, comment and like! As always, I would love to know what you’re all thinking! ❤

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Hell, his cigarettes were always stronger. A combination of tough tobacco and intense nicotine, more natural but probably more dangerous. The box was nearly full, you noticed as you fished one out. Either he had recently bought it or he was being more resilient with his addiction - either of those things seemed unlikely. Feeling it now, as you inhaled the nicotine and hid a cough of surprise at the intense taste, you almost had the impression that being addicted to it seemed a lot harder than it looked.

You had sat on the back steps, but you made a point of leaving the door closed as it was before. The night was muggy, a little cruel if you were wearing more than a cotton t-shirt; it gave you an overwhelming feeling, as if you were sensing everything around you. You noticed that the garden had a particularly feminine feel to it — something that felt like Juliana, perhaps a very vivid reflection of what her presence in the house was like. Flowers, water fonts, the stone that certainly had a cool name that was used on the steps you were sitting on. You could feel comfort in the soles of your feet if you moved a little.

The weeds and chips in the beds looked more like Carrillo. You wouldn’t think he cared so much about making the place feel like a house, let alone whether to make the garden look like a garden.

“Why are you here?”

You didn’t have a proper answer. Given his manners, you could smoke in the room, could think about whatever kept you up that night by his window or in the comfort of his bed. Instead, you got there, far away, fingers brushing your jaw unconsciously and smoking a cigarette that wasn’t yours. Without something to say, you shrugged, not eyeing him but knowing he could find ways to get the answer somehow.

It was a pleasant surprise to see him walk down those steps, casually pull up a wooden chair that was there and sit down to face you. That made you smile discreetly.

“It’s awful, just so you know,” You gestured with the cigarette in your hand, contradicting yourself the next second while you took another hit.

“It’s not the best option for those who want to quit.”

“I just picked the wrong time for this. Or the wrong career.”

Carrillo didn't respond, but you could see him make that information something to mull over. You held his analytical gaze for a while; when it got intense enough, you took another drag and turned your face to the side.

“I didn't get them all,” The comment came after a long moment of silence, when you noticed that he didn’t make any effort to have one for him.

“Mm-hm,” He answered easily. “I figured you'd stop at the first one.”

“Yeah, well, this shit it’s fucked. You should review your preferences.”

“On cigarettes?”

“That too.”

This time he reacted, but in such an unusual way that it didn't seem like him. Horacio was drowsy, slow, as if the outside world had taken a break for that moment. Rested, by the saying. And when he decided to lean forward, reaching out a hand to pull the cigarette clamped between your fingers, you let him, watching the way he just took the time to put it in his own mouth before subtly grabbing your previously occupied hand. The same one that was still sore from the impact of the fall, but not so bad that it made you flinch from the touch. With the orange cigarette light illuminating his face, Carrillo carefully detailed the wounds, his thumb trailing lightly over your knuckles.

“Who told you?” The question slipped out of your mouth smoothly, but you felt anxious asking it. When he just frowned at you, you clarified. “About my… fall.”

He took his time taking the cig away, then took more time blowing the smoke away before saying something.

“Peña.”

Of course.

You tilted your head while you entertained yourself with the hold he had on your hand. Raising your eyes after a good moment, you saw him watching you.

You looked at each other for a moment. His fingers twitched in the grasp he had on your skin and whatever breeze that would come to brush you two wouldn’t make a single scratch at that moment. He looked so soft, so… open, like a vision of whatever type of man he was, a person you’d been meeting piece by piece. The warm eyes, the peaceful sincerity and the calm touches. God, he was so beautiful.

“Te extraño en mi cama.” I miss you in my bed. There wasn’t a teasing tone with the way he talked, but you could feel his intentions dripping from his voice.

Instead of giving him a proper answer, you chose — again — to keep any thought to yourself. With a slow hand, you grabbed the cigarette again, inhaling a little and releasing the smoke into the air without taking your eyes off him.

“¿Entonces viniste a buscarme?” So you came to get me?

Eyeing him from above, you could see the small smirk playing on his lips at the comment. You reflected the reaction, taking another drag before returning the cigarette. On this one, he pulled the touch away from your hand and directed it to the bare skin of your leg. Again, you didn’t make the effort to move or say something. Carrillo leaned in carefully, placing a single kiss on the inside of your left knee, then another on the right one. His body was angled enough that you could admire the curve of his broad back, the way the muscles stretched the fabric of his shirt.

“¿Qué estás haciendo?” What are you doing? You asked, a little breathless from the gentle kisses and touches, shivering like an untouched woman.

“Te quiero cerca de mi,” I want you close to me, He said against your skin, hand massaging your thighs. “¿Harías esto por mí?” Would you do this for me?

“Por supuesto, Horacio. No estaba huyendo.” Of course, Horacio. I wasn't running away.

“Yo sé que no. No irías muy lejos vestida así.” I know you weren’t. You wouldn't go far dressed like that. Carrillo straightened his stance, smiling playfully at you and letting a small ‘oof’ when you kicked him lightly on the leg.

You two got back to a comfortable silence, the tip of his fingers brushing your knees while you kept staring at the distance. The cigarette was still burning, making that strong smell of tobacco flow through the air calmly. It was peaceful, the way you sat there, silently, in each other's orbit. For a moment, you wanted to ask if he just lost sleep or if you had woken him up; maybe he wanted to ask something like that too. In the end, no one said anything, even though something should be done soon and you should move on from there.

“Quite dramatic, don’t you think?” You were the first one breaking the silence, still not eyeing him with a wave of embarrassment hitting you. “We’re almost there to get that motherfucker and I’m here whining because of my father.”

“You’re not whining.”

“You know what I mean.”

He knew and, from the inside, you also knew he agreed with your opinions. There was a lot going on, a war to win, people dying, but still your personal problems darkened your vision from the real problem. It made you understand why Carrillo was so averse to DEA or CIA - so many people looking at their own ass and not seeing the whole figure, the important part. Even then, you appreciated the effort, the way he just shook his head a little, took a drag, averted the topic.

You two contemplated the night in silence, puffing smoke and eventually brushing each other’s shins or legs or fingers. It was so easy to get used to the calm of that moment, to remember it as something eternal. You didn't want to think about the end of that because thinking about the end of that would, perhaps, be thinking about the end of what you had with Horacio there, at that moment. A mission that had to be accomplished, with the usual consequences. This was such a cruel melancholy, one that you only glimpsed as simple touches on your fingertips but that made your heart sink.

“Que pasa, mi amor?” What is it, my love? Carrillo asked, probably noticing the way you showed your sadness in your eyes, staring back at him.

“Nn-nn,” You shook your head. “I’m fine. Maybe I just wanna go to bed now.”

“We can do that.”

He didn't press, nor did he hesitate to put out his cigarette so the two of you could go back inside. When they did, Horacio locked the door but didn't let you go very far - he subtly held your hand, bringing you closer and kissing your bruised knuckles. Then, without taking his eyes off yours, he placed a sighing kiss on your forehead, in the middle of your eyebrows, on the bridge of your nose and, finally, on your lips.

“I don't think I ever told you how beautiful you are.”

“Horacio…”

“What? Don’t you believe me?”

“I’m already here, that’s all. You already have me, you don’t need to-” You knew exactly why you waved off his compliment, why you felt so unsure of how to react to it, and maybe he did too, because Carrillo wasn’t dumb. “Thank you. Sorry.”

You also didn’t know why your eyes welled with tears - either way, you suppressed the urge to cry, looking at him from under your lashes with shyness. With a discreet hand, you held his chest, then the side of his neck, tilting your head to the side and almost failing in keeping a neutral expression while observing his face. If you could, you would tell him that you were used to losing, that it wasn’t the first time your mind started to prepare you for another fall, another break. That Horacio, that this, wouldn’t be forever, that maybe you were just a storm in a life that could be calm.

Horacio deserved suitable days. Days where he could have kids, a wife to call his, sunday lunches with family and calm nights with a partner. You always doubted yourself so much, always put yourself in the harsh ways of life to just feel something, that suddenly you felt self conscious of the fact that you weren’t what he probably was looking for, that he wouldn’t change you or what happened or how messy the world was. You didn’t want it to end because it was good. Imprudent, maybe, and quite dangerous, but good. So good.

“What will become of us after this, Horacio? What do you expect of me?”

He blinked, frowning in a stern way.

“Is that what made you lose sleep?”

You nodded. The confirmation just made him sigh, shaking his head lightly and showing clear signs of frustration.

“He was never right about you. He doesn't… He doesn't deserve you, what he said doesn't belong to you,” Carrillo contained a harsh tone, jaw clenching. “I don’t expect anything, not from you, not from us, nothing but the assurance that you’re here now. That’s what I need.”

---------------------------------

It was different that time, you knew it was. Not like the first time, in the pure and mutual attraction, nor the second, in the decompression of the adversities that surrounded the two of you. It was different because, if Carrillo was crazy enough to ask you to marry him or propose an escape or make you stay there forever, you would say yes. Yes, Yes, Yes. Yes, take me away, yes, make me yours, yes, be the father of the children I never wanted to have but would have if you asked me. Yes, I would do anything for you.

But he didn't ask any of that. He hardly asked, in fact, because between ordering or teasing, as he always did with you, Horacio decided to give you things, fill you with dark truths in the way he kissed you and made love to you that night.

There was caution, care. He calmly undressed you, kissed you from heel to lip, caressed you through your physical wounds and those of your mind, holding you tight while he heard you moan and sigh. Sex for you was always a coincidence, an exaggerated consummation that was nothing more than pure biology. With him, that night, it was the end of a long and unnecessary waiting time that would always lead to the same result: the two of you together, skin to skin, without delay.

It was ridiculously cliché, looking into his eyes as you rode him slowly, as you enjoyed every moment with sweaty, panting faces, and knowing that the devotion of pleasure was the first and most genuine positive emotion you felt for each other. That there was no love at first sight, nor at second, nor at third, but a feeling that was based on the truth that, sometimes, the patches of difficult lives so full of ashes were enough for the right person. Ashes that became embers and fire again, with comfortable flames that warmed and did not burn. Not anymore, at least.

When it was all over, with both of you exhausted, tired and overwhelmed by the end, Horacio opened his first truly light smile, without intentions, just a happy one. He passed his hand over your forehead, looked at you without fear.

“Te amo.”

I love you.

---------------------------------

In the morning, despite having little sleep, you indulged more than you did at night in the shower. It was much less romantic, but equally intense, with skin-to-skin noises, loud moans, nail marks and very naughty looks. He took you from behind, one possessive hand on your neck and the other arm wrapped around your torso to balance his firm thrusts, while you grabbed his hips to keep him going.

One of your best mornings, indeed.

“I have a meeting before lunch. Then we have some alignments about the capture,” He said, all professional again, handing you a cup of coffee. You took it, smiling at the gesture while eyeing the correspondence from the day before that was stuck on your purse.

“The capture. Big word,” The teasing didn’t go unnoticed by him, but the term caused a small cloud of tension to hang in the air.

A letter from your mother. She said she loved you, asked for what the fuck was that magazines in your apartment and a date she had with the guy from the Blockbuster she mentioned two letters before. No details, thank God.

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

A call-up from Messina. Nothing important. That report she asked was probably on her desk by now.

“About this word.”

You stopped between an FBI report and another envelope. When you looked up, you saw him standing in front of you, leaning on the counter where you were sitting and sipping your own coffee. This made you consider a response, even if you already knew what you were going to say. With a sigh, you placed the envelopes back on the top of your bag and also took a sip of coffee, shrugging your shoulders.

“Last time he ran away.”

“Is that what you meant?”

“... No,” You shook your head lightly. “We know what will happen. Do you want me to say it?”

“You could try.”

But you didn’t. He knew, you knew, that was what mattered. Like ripping away a band-aid, or taking the life out of a queen bee - resolution, antidote, job done. You turned your face away from him, eyeing the letters splayed out there, and shook your head again.

“I don't want to put you into the operation. When the day comes, I mean.”

“I know,” A sip - a bitter one. “It’s okay.”

“Is it?”

“My name will already be in the history books, Carrillo. The DEA agent who fell from the rooftops the most in Medellín,” Even if it meant to be a teasing, Horacio didn’t smile, which made you roll your eyes. “I did the job, we all did. Whoever pulls the trigger, I’m happy. Satisfied.”

He didn’t respond to that, nor did he bring up the subject again, and you knew he understood what your passive words meant. You could be hiding something, maybe, but you weren't sure what it was. Your father may have been incapable of keeping words that promised good things, but he had uncanny abilities to carry out his threats well. He wouldn't touch Carrillo, he needed him, the aggression and the wounded pride that still coursed through the guy's veins. It would be one, two of the group. It would be someone.

You left the house giving him a long kiss, one that was returned with a certain innocence - which was an odd word to associate with him, anyway. Either way, you were determined to make the future farewell, the inevitable one, a little less full of secrets. You would say what really happened. You would do that, yes, different from what an unloving father would do after destroying his own family.

---------------------------------

“¿Qué pasó, hijo? Pareces distraído.” What happened, son? You seem distracted.

Jorge blinked a few times, looking back at the dishes in his hands and the foam, which was more sliding around his fists than actually cleaning anything in the sink. When he realized that he was, in fact, wandering in thought, he cleared his throat and tried to scrub the plate harder. He had done it before, but repeated the process unconsciously.

“Sólo estoy cansado, mamá. Fue un día largo en el hospital.” I'm just tired, mom. It was a long day at the hospital.

He hadn't said it in the letter - he didn't feel the strength or courage to do so. He didn't know how his mother would react. Georgina was a truly strong, competent woman, but Jorge's need to take a peek into the past was always something she ignored or just pretended didn't exist. If she imagined anything from her son's erratic behavior, the way he had become more agitated since the DEA had gotten its hands on the hunt for Escobar, she didn't comment. Another quality of hers, perhaps coming from experience, was knowing when to be quiet.

“No sé si voy a venir a cenar esta noche,” I don't know if I'm going to come to dinner tonight, Jorge said in a low, almost embarrassed tone, because he knew how much she didn’t like the idea. When he felt her coming closer, touching his shoulder calmly, he thought it was over and then, right there, all the secrecy would be over.

“¿De guardia en el hospital?” On duty at the hospital?

“Mm-hm.” He nodded, still watching the dishes, afraid of what he would find if his eyes landed on Georgina. She hummed, patting his back, then turning away.

“Ten cuidado en el camino. Por lo que parece, se están yendo.” Be careful on the way. From the looks of it, they’re leaving.

His hands clenched tightly at the mention of 'them', as did his eyes. Jorge always hated his sentimental side because it constantly failed him when necessary - since he was little, he would cry because he was away from his mother for a long time (who didn't give up brothel work even after having him) or he would get angry when another patient died due to lack of medicine in the hospital or he would even feel incredibly guilty when he saw the money that always came with men who were not from the government. That last part, he actually learned to overcome. If he was really determined like his grandmother always prophesied, he would never send that letter. You didn't owe him anything, you might not even have known he existed or, worse, followed not only in your father's footsteps in your career but in life.

Jorge left his mother's house afraid of being rejected again because it had been three days. Three days and nothing.

He wouldn't have another chance.

---------------------------------

That was the thing about being an almost lone woman on the front line: there was a subconscious idea that male colleagues had your back. Well, in general it was the other way around, and you wouldn't have been able to visualize any kind of support from anyone when you arrived, but perhaps your work might have earned you some respect - enough for people to look at you when you spoke and give value to what came out of your mouth. Maybe, if you had a little more stomach, you'd even ask Judy Moncada if she also earned respect through suffocation. Probably yes. Javier frowned a lot when her name came up (which was rare to see), so you could say that this would be an interesting point of identification.

It was the same Peña who mentioned that day he bumped into your father. He didn't specify a time, a specific moment, so it wasn't possible to know if it was before or after the episode in the office, just that it happened. You noticed that he kept looking at you with some suspicion, searching for an opening that would remove his doubt, but when you just said 'mm' and continued looking at the papers, the subject was dropped. There, you realized that it would be much easier to be punctual with your answers if he asked about Carrillo, but you knew he would hate to know too many details about it.

And oh yes, the 'protection'. You were never alone in a room with your father. When he prostrated himself more aggressively, sometimes Carrillo intervened with a firmer voice or Javier or Steve placed themselves, albeit discreetly, in front of you to shield yourself from that reaction. You always noticed, but never commented on it.

“He said that?”

The decision to tell Javier about what happened came in handy for a few basic reasons: he could be on the line (your father would always prefer a good, obedient boy next door like Steve), he knew how to keep secrets, and more than anything, there was a quiet trust that Carrillo wouldn't know about it from him. The two knew each other a little better, they had more identification, so Peña would understand why that conversation was taking place on the discreet terrace of your building between puffs of cigarettes.

“I just want to let you know. You know, in case something happens in the next few days.”

Javi frowned, nodding along but contemplating the information. You observed his side profile for a moment before turning your eyes to the night sky.

“Do you think it would be you?” When he asked that, you noticed that the question didn’t come with eye contact. His eyes were on the concrete, right where he tapped the ashes of his cig.

“I can’t be sure…” You sighed. “We're already in the final stretch, I'm sure of it. It wouldn't make any difference to let us go now. Still…”

Nothing came from your mouth. Javi pressed with raised eyebrows.

“CIA has its methods,” That was all you said and it could mean a lot of dramatic stuff, but at best he would just take some relevant parts from reports or even put on some obstacles in the near future. He would, indeed - he could.

“And don't you think your relationship with Carrillo is hurting your career?”

You two shared a glance, a long one. Javier didn’t seem to regret what he said, nor reticent; it was a question he wanted to do, so he did. And you considered it calmly, rolling the cigarette between your fingers without taking your eyes off him.

“What do you think?”

“... No,” He said, shaking his head. “It's harmless. At least from here. You?”

“It would be a bigger problem if it were you,” The teasing made him scoff.

“You wouldn't risk falling in love with me, at least. I wasn't going to let you do it.”

“Oh no?”

“Nn-nn.”

“Thank God, then.”

“Yeah, you should really be grateful. I still don't understand how you managed to get into his pants.”

“It's not that hard.”

“Mm.”

“You jealous or somethin’?” You raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re his type at all, but-”

“Shut up,” He groaned, almost not being able to hide his playful grin while kicking your leg lightly. It turned into shared laughs soon, so you knew it would be another thing to remember.

A small silence lingered there, serene and soft. When he spoke again, it came in a low tone, tranquilized.

“If it's me-”

“Mm?”

“They're going to assign me to Cali. Well, I hope so.”

“You want that?”

“I don’t know what I would do, ‘s all. This… You know what I did here. It's a consequence that I would like to at least remedy, at least to sleep better at night.”

You observed him without a word to say, noticing that the privilege of having a slight reliable source of comfort for certain feelings was mutual. Well, you wished you could’ve noticed that earlier - it would’ve made a difference.

“Maybe I’ll need some support up there.”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Do you have plans after this?”

For a moment, for a slight small moment, you wanted to give him a definitive answer; that you would be on the field, that LA still has some hard work to do, that you wanted to stay. If you knew this, you would tell him for sure, because it was Javi and Javi was…

“Fuck, are you two that serious?”

You puffed more smoke in the air, one brow raised.

“I like him.”

Javier didn't respond, but there was a slightly bitter aura on his face, as if he had fallen into an unwanted situation. Well, it was. Just as it was undesirable to leave the US to hunt down a narco, or see innocent dead bodies every day, or start something like that with Carrillo at that point in things. Would there ever be an ideal time?

From the way Peña shared a glance with you, turning his eyes back to the street below you two, there was just one rational and coherent answer. Damn it all, you thought, because being irrational and incoherent seemed to work so fine with everything.

---------------------------------

You couldn't be very moved when Javier was sent away. You were furious, yes, because you could see in your father's eyes that day that it had been your defeat. No, it was a fact, you couldn't react in front of so many people, not even when you hugged him hidden in the parking lot.

“I’m sorry, Javi. I’m sorry.” You said, gripping the fabric of his jacket and keeping your eyes squeezed shut.

“It’s not your fault,” He said as calmly and coldly as he could, hands splayed on your back. “I caused this to myself.”

That sentence haunted you for a while, at least long enough. When Carrillo came to see you later, when you lay in bed together, no one mentioned what happened, even though it was a fact that no one there slept well (again).

“Pronto,” He said. “Pronto atraparemos a ese hijo de puta.” Soon. We'll soon catch this son of a bitch.

And you didn't know if Carrillo was talking about Escobar, your father or whatever the ghost was that surrounded it all.

---------------------------------

A breath you didn't know you were holding left your throat when you heard Trujillo come back on the radio saying that Escobar was dead. Your two hands were gripping the supports of the leather chair, your nails digging into the upholstery, your shoulders raised to your ears; you were alone in the room, locked and static. In the background, you could hear Steve, hear Carrillo and the men. There was a dead body, a definitive body, and it 'almost' made you cry.

You noticed a presence soon after and, when you looked up from the equipment, you saw your father. He had his arms crossed, his body leaning against the doorframe. You exchanged a withering look, full of many meaningless things.

“We-”

“No.”

For the first time, he didn’t answer, didn’t press. You blinked a few times, got even more closer to the desk and turned your eyes back to the radio.

“There will be no confirmation of CIA involvement.”

“Is that the most you can get?”

“I have nothing to apologize for.”

You nodded, expression unreadable, face never leaving the equipment.

“Apologizing is apologizing. I never painted you as a guy with a lot of metaphors and I don't think you would have the mental capacity to do that now.”

He didn’t say anything again. Not a word. When you looked at the door after a few minutes, he was gone - nothing but the empty corridor in your eyesight.

When it was all over, all done (when it finally looked like the end of the line), you didn’t feel all the emotions and joy and relief you always thought you would. There was a restraint, from the way people celebrated from the way you held yourself against the decision to run to Carrillo as soon as they all came back. You looked at the smiles and laughs from afar, observed the proud way Horacio was acting from finally (finally) making it to the final. To kill, to take that bug hurting his ego, his country and his integrity for so long. It all mattered to him and for that you could celebrate.

For some reason, even so, whatever weight you still carried on your shoulders, you flexed your hands so as not to touch Carrillo and carried his body slowly even though your heart screamed for you to run, to jump into his arms and give a relieved sigh, being able to say it was over. You walked closer, patted his bicep, gave one of the most genuine smiles you had, mouthed ‘we did it’ - his eyes were full of a deserved relief, like a good tiredness. Yeah, you wished you could keep that moment in a box, open it when necessary, keep it to memory. He was, really, a beautiful man.

And if you got away from the commotion and saw your father from afar, watching the scene like a hawk, making you lose your smile, it had nothing to do with the sudden sour mood that surrounded your head even during such a big event.

---------------------------------

“Peña called.”

“Mm?”

Carrillo hummed, the sound reverberating on his chest where you were laying on. The midnight breeze was cooler, mixed with your naked bodies fresh from the shower and the thin layer of the sheets, but you two weren’t shivering.

You brushed your palm on his pecks, nuzzling closer to his neck.

“Said he hoped we celebrated a lot.”

“We did, right?” The teasing on your tone made him chuckle, head turning to the side to peck your forehead.

“I think he should be a part of it somehow,” It didn’t sound like a confession, but more like a statement. Yes, he should, but he wasn’t. An empty space was there, one that nobody would be able to fix.

“... Yeah,” You said slowly, eyeing the window.

“Is that why you looked so lost earlier today?” He asked.

It was true that you didn't want to ruin the moment with what was going on in your head, much less bring another type of bureaucracy to the ones he would face with Escobar's death, but you always thought you could be one step ahead of Carrillo when it came to hiding your true emotions. He had an almost religious ability to read people.

“No,” You shook your head. “But I would rather not talk about it.”

And he didn’t. Horacio went all quiet and kept tracing patterns on your shoulder and arm, all the while giving long and steady breaths, as if entering in a state of relaxation that you’d never seen before. Another thing to keep close to your heart, the way you could feel the slump of his shoulders, his soft heartbeat, the delicate touch of the tip of his fingers - things that he didn’t allow himself to be, a version of himself that flowed in the air, an almost domestic man.

Domestic, yes, so you adjusted your body to be even more closer, touching his skin and kissing what you could reach, what could still be surrounding you. It scared you a little, the fact that if he decided to be done like before, to create some distance between you two, you would be almost sick, sad, unsure of what to do with your hands and mind. Well, the offer would be up. You could still be closer for a little more, work with Peña if he ever got the chance to work on the Cali, to be some hours away from this thing you started to truly appreciate with Carrillo.

But again, hell, again, you wondered if that would always be like this. Could you two only be together in a context of war, of conflict? Wasn't there a version of that closeness that could be solidified in the silence and peace of a stable relationship? How unfair would that be, stopping the world for a moment and being able to sleep with someone you love without a gun under your pillow or the uncertainty of even being alive at the end of the day?

You felt selfish. Horacio could’ve died at the hands of the narcos, he always had an almost obsessive ambition to have that man in his hands, defeated and destroyed. It was enough that he was there, with you, and not in some tomb with honorable mentions made for Juliana, and not for you, because you were nothing more than two colleagues to people. You even felt self conscious. There would be less uncertainty if Juliana was there instead of you because she stopped her life so that Horacio could climb his own, achieve things, be the provider.

You remembered the night right after he was shot.

“I came to see you the day you got shot,” It slipped out of your mouth, breaking the silence in a sharp way even if your voice was small.

“You did?” He asked, confused by the sudden change of subject but willing to engage. “Why didn't I know this before?”

“... I saw Juliana in your house.”

Another silence followed your comment, this time more rigid. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, focusing your eyes on the skin of his belly, but that comfort lasted so little when he squirmed, almost forcing you to move away enough to look at his face. With a gulp, you did, body supported by one of your elbows to see his concerned face.

“It bothered you,” Horacio said.

“No, it’s just… You two were married, Horacio, for fucks sake… And it was obvious that she would come by to see how you’re doing. I didn’t want to interrupt. Not to mention that we weren’t as we are now.”

He stared at you, still frowning. After a while, when he noticed that you weren't going to say anything else, he relaxed his face a little, looking at the window and collecting his own thoughts.

“I tried to rekindle our relationship. Deep down, I thought I needed stability in life, something that made sense and that I didn't need to worry about, so the divorce was a frustration,” A sigh. “But that was before Escobar, before all that. I realized it would be better this way when we went to Madrid. She returned to be with her family, but we signed the divorce with the certainty that it was the right thing to do.”

You listened to his words with attention.

“When I got shot, I didn't think about anything. There was no film of my life or missed chances and opportunities. If I died right then, my only regret would be that I didn't finish my work,” He turned to you then, measuring your face with care. “When Juliana showed up, the only thing she told me was that I shouldn't be miserable enough to only have this mission in my head. That I should progress, live. No one would wait for me forever at the finish line and it would be a horrible feeling to swim for so long only to die alone on the beach.”

That was like a punch in the stomach, a force of words of things that only squeezed your heart. The fear and insecurity of being alone, of all that ending, you returning to LA and having all these feelings, added to the guilt of not valuing what your mother, for example, offered. This loneliness at the end of the day, of modified dreams and a brutal reality, this was something you thought about with yourself and didn't imagine that someone else would feel it too.

“That's when I thought of you.”

You gulped, mouth twisting to prevent a smile.

“You and your perfume. It was always a femininity that I repudiated, particularly because it broke with my focus, took me off the axis, off my plan. After that I realized that getting rid of Escobar was an incredible feeling and going back to that same perfume was just as good.”

No one spoke of goodbyes, of a goodbye that would be seen occasionally and almost instantly. You did it, you accomplished your mission. And if what was left, even if only for a short time, was that sensitive moment of implied declarations and a true sense of love, then so be it.

This ending wasn't that bad.

---------------------------------

“You’re really trying to make this a competition, huh?”

You couldn’t help but smile at his teasing tone, turning your head for a peck on the lips before going back to the search on your bag. It was still early in the morning, so after a good fight around your kitchen to do a cup of coffee before he woke up, you decided to smoke some - just to notice that you couldn’t find your pack of cigarettes.

Carrillo circled his arms around your waist from behind, making you tilt your head to give room for him to place small and deliberate kisses on your neck. When he started to lower his hand, brushing the inside of your left thigh, you couldn’t help but chuckle. Noticing that you still weren't giving him your undivided attention, Horacio grunted and suddenly grabbed your purse, throwing it haphazardly on the sofa and suppressing your surprised gasp by turning you towards him and kissing your mouth.

“What’s going on?” You asked, unsure if you should laugh, push him away lightly or just give in on his affections.

“Nn-nn,” He mumbled, burying his face on your neck again.

“Nn-nn?”

“Just five more minutes.”

And he wasn't agitated, nor witty enough to make that moment a heap of giggles or tickles or… Anyway. He remained quiet, breathing deeply, placing both palms on your back and pressing you against his body. You frowned at the silence, at the request, until you felt his heart racing in his chest, his skin sweaty. Perhaps you had heard a commotion in the room, something that indicated the reason for that almost unexpected attitude. Horacio was rigid, almost restless in a… different way, burying his fingers on your back.

“Was it a nightmare?” You asked in a low tone.

“Bad dream.”

Well, you could say it was the same thing, but Carrillo probably had odd ways to cope with this shit, like not saying it was a nightmare would make it less scary. It was early - way too early for either of you to be up. It was as if the calm was fighting against the hustle and bustle of the outside world and what was happening. A reminder. You could tell he felt what you had felt the day before, at least because you knew there would be a small sacrifice at the end of it all.

You hugged him back, closed your eyes at the proximity. No one said anything, you particularly couldn’t. If you did, you would have to admit that, yeah, you knew how it was to have bad dreams - that yours involved saying a difficult goodbye, saying that you two would be over.

Yeah, this ending wasn't that bad, but it hurted a little; if felt like a fucking sacrifice.

---------------------------------

You both had busy days with bureaucracy. There was a lot of paperwork, press conferences, arrests and transfers. The Montoya family wrote to you, Peña wrote (although he was more succinct). When your mother wrote, asking (among other things) when you would return, you answered all her other questions except that one. Steve and Connie invited you to dinner as a farewell and they, yes, had a date to leave, to bury complicated days.

Your apartment was a mess because of it; clothes on the floor, work things scattered around. Some people in the office already had tickets booked to the US, so whenever you came back late at night or in the early hours of the day, there would be someone walking by with boxes, smiling in relief. You just stayed quiet. At dinner, at bureaucracies, at the times you managed to meet Carrillo.

Something was missing. You didn't feel truly fulfilled, you didn't find the strength to respond to your father's criticism or anything that came out of his mouth. It was an inertia of confusion, uncertainty and emptiness.

Horacio was in your apartment when it happened.

The two of you had sat on the couch, smoked, drank, had sex. The usual.

You remembered him getting up to get the bottle of bourbon that was left in the kitchen and you said you would accept another drink. Then you squirmed on the couch, rested your head to face the ceiling and rubbed your eyes, already partially drunk. When you turned your head to the side, hearing Carrillo mumble something about the bottle already running out, you saw a piece of paper pointing out from under the couch.

Any other time, really, you would leave it there. God, why did you take that shit in the first place? Why didn't Horacio arrive seconds earlier to distract you from opening that letter?

Jorge Pérez. With a high level of importance.

It was dated a few days earlier and had been written on pages in a small notebook, with spaced words and letters, all written in typical Colombian Spanish that was mixed in quick, light, hurried writing.

The last time you felt that feeling of having disassociated like that was when Juan Marcos almost killed you. Your head felt light, removed from reality, and it was as if your hands were tingling. You didn't laugh this time, you didn't have a hysterical laughing reaction from the shock, because maybe your body was so exhausted that you could only react with the first thing you felt like doing.

Each word was taken in with a lump in your throat and you blinked a few times as you felt your hands shaking, holding the papers and couldn't finish reading the rest. There were three parts, three pieces. You were suddenly impulsive about finishing the rest, reading, turning over the papers, gripping them tightly between your fingers.

“What?”

He asked with a confused expression, but you couldn’t quite catch his question right away. With a hand in front of your mouth, you swallowed a sob and held that letter with a firm grip, afraid of it all being a lie or an illusion or… A trick. A fucking universe trick for your mind and soul.

You raised your eyes to Carrillo, gulping again to prevent any big emotion from spreading all over the place.

“... It’s… It’s Jorge.”

“And who is it?”

The words almost didn’t leave your mouth, as if you were scared of the consequences of just… saying it.

“My brother.”

---------------------------------

I saw him on TV, but I saw you on a very trivial day. I don't remember the clothes you were wearing, nor could I tell you what time it was, or what day specifically. Maybe it was right after I saw him, but I still wouldn't know for sure. Things always pass me by with dates and names. I'm dyslexic. The truth is, well, you have a dyslexic brother who is a doctor. This is a great treat for those who enjoy stories of overcoming.

He never talked about me, did he? I'm sure he didn't do that. I think you're smart, maybe witty, because he never talked about you to me either. Perhaps we both did something that would be worthy of making him pull away. This is strangely comforting.

I know that the moment is not convenient and that it may seem like a lie, like a trap or something, so I understand if it takes a while, despite admitting that I am an anxious guy, I would even say impulsive. The truth is that not having an answer from you makes me resigned, but if you responded, if you looked for me, I would be hopeful.

Be sure to stop by a bar in Belén called Bodega del Toro. They have great fish filets and craft beers that are always cold.

Show up. Go to the bar if you can.

He won't show up, you can be sure. This stopped being a reality a long time ago. I hope it also brought out, in addition to your appearance, the generosity that I'm sure your mother has.

---------------------------------

No pressure tags:

@cheesybadgers

@thesandbeneathmytoes

@616wilsons

@nessamc

@thoroughlymodernminutia

@padbrookcottage

#horacio carrillo x reader #horacio carrillo #colonel carrillo x reader #colonel carrillo #female reader #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #narcos #maurice compte

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httphamssell · 2 years

Text

FOR HER | CL16

Pairing: Dad!Charles Leclerc x Mom!Female!reader.

Summary: Charles wants to learn how to tie your hair, for his unborn daughter.

Warnings: Fluffy…

Word Count: 392

Requested: Yes

Author's Notes: Hope you like it. I also ended up changing a little of what was requested, I hope you don't mind. English is not my first language, so sorry for any grammar mistakes!!

You and Charles were in Sardinia for your penultimate baby moon before your daughter arrived. You had found out it was a girl a few months ago and he was over the moon about becoming a father of a girl.

At the moment you were lying on the lounge in the villa you two rented. If being five months pregnant was exhausting, you couldn't even imagine what it would be like at the end of pregnancy.

Charles was in the kitchen making you sandwiches. He had gotten it into his head that you could only eat natural and healthy things. He had fully gone into father mode from the moment you told him you were pregnant.

You were almost asleep, when you hear footsteps coming from the kitchen, already knowing who they are, you don't even open your eyes.

“Mon chéri” Charles calls calmly, not wanting to scare you.

“Yes,baby” You reply, opening your eyes slowly to get used to the sunlight.

“Could you teach me how to tie your hair? You know, by the time the little bean starts to grow hair, I'll know how to tie it.” He asks you shyly.

“My love, you know it's going to take a while for her to have hair to tie. Right?" You look at him with a loving, amused look in your eyes.

"Yeah, I know. I just want to be prepared for when that day comes!”

"Okay then." Charles flashes a smile in your direction, and sits behind you on the lounge chair.

“It's not as difficult as it looks. First you gather the hair into a fist, and then with your hand with the ponytail you run it around the hair in your other hand.” Your husband does exactly what you say even with a little dificult.

"I think it's a little crooked." He says looking at the ponytail he had just tied himself.

“Usually it doesn’t look good when you do it for the first time, but you can keep training if you want.”

And so, you spend the rest of the afternoon with Charles tying and undoing your hair, until he manages to secure the ponytail straight.

Even though your daughter wasn't here yet, you already knew that Charles would strive to be the best father to her, just as he was the best husband to you.

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x s/n #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc one shot #charles leclerc fluff #f1 x y/n #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x you

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xreader-writing · 2 years

Text

The best | Klaus Hargreeves

Sumarry → Y/n leaves after an argument with Luther, so Klaus and Ben go after her.

Pairing → Klaus hargreeves X Hargreeves!Reader | Word Count → 664

A/N → I hope this isn't too bad.♡ English is not my first language, so I’m sorry for any mistakes.

Masterlist | Open requests!

"What the hell, why did Luther have to be the usual idiot to say those things to her?" Klaus says to Ben as the two walk down the sidewalk going from bar to bar looking for his sister.

"How do you know she went to a bar?" Ben asks and Klaus snorts.

"Come on she's a Hargreeves, obviously when she's upset she'll go to a bar." Klaus speaks like it's obvious.

The two stop in front of a bar and sigh.

"Well that's the penultimate one, let's hope." Klaus says, and enters the establishment, sighing in relief when he sees his sister up ahead in a circle of people who look very drunk.

"Sister, my goodness I found you, come let's go home." Kluas says taking her hand and pulling it.

"No Klaus, let me go!" Y/n says trying to get away from Klaus' hands.

"No honey, we're going home."

"Hey dude let her go." Klaus feels his sister being pulled from the other side, and turns towards the voice.

"She is my sister, and i will take her home with me." He says looking seriously at the man laughs.

"No, she will stay here." He says pulling more Y/n, who is too drunk to understand the situation.

Klaus looks at the man's hands on his sister's arms and all he wants to do is rip those dirty hands off of him because he knows that if she were sober she would never allow such a thing.

"Get your filthy paws off her!" Klaus says and pushes the man who falls backwards.

"Will it be like this then?" The man punches Klaus

Klaus staggered back a little, and his eyes searched his sister again, the punch hurt, it sure did, but he hates it a lot more if it had been his favorite person, his sister

He looked at her, who seemed distant in thoughts, and took advantage that the man was being held, to go to her and take her arm again.

"Let's go." He says and starts dragging her out of the confusion until they get out of that bar.

"Holy shit, that was an adventure, sister!" He says putting his hands on his knees and laughing.

"Klaus..." Ben says looking straight at Y/n.

Klaus looks at his sister and sees her eyes watering.

"Sorry Klaus, I only know how to mess things up, forgive me." She says putting her hands on her face and staggering a little.

Klaus sighed as he remembered that those were the exact words Luther had said to her a few hours ago.

"I can't believe you believed that giant, come on sister you know it's not true" Klaus says putting his arms around her shoulders, pulling her to his chest.

"You just got hurt because of me Klaus." Y/n says still crying in her chest.

"And I would do it again if it means you're safe, you've always been the one who believed in me, come on sister you've always been the one who believed in everyone." Ben nods at Klaus' words.

"Tell her she's the prettiest of all of us too." Ben says.

"Oh and the prettiest among us too." Klaus says, and Y/n laughs, letting go of him, and wiping away tears.

"You're the best brother, Klaus." She says smiling fondly to Klaus.

"Looks like you're the only one who thinks that" Klaus lets out an awkward laugh, and grabs his sister's arm when he sees her almost falling over.

"Anyone who doesn't realize how fantastic you are is completely crazy." She says with a huff and Klaus laughs at his sister's way.

"I think you should say that in front of the mirror." Klaus says taking her hand, and the three start walking.

It's a complicated family, but thank God they have each other.

#klaus hargreeves #umbrella academy klaus #ben hargreeves #ben hargreeves x reader #klaus hargreeves x reader #the umbrella academy x reader

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

Text

VII ║ Contrary

Dieter Bravo x f!reader

{ << Part 6: Confute | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 8: Concentric >> }

Rating: E (18+ only)

Summary: You broke the cardinal rule, and Dieter knows it. There’s only one thing to do.

Warnings: ANGST, JEALOUSY, fighting, drinking, swearing, dirty talk, oral sex (m receiving), safe unprotected sex (be smart kids!), bath tub sex, size kink, light cum play, yearning, mentions of food, no use of Y/N

Word count: 8.9k… I tried to write less, believe me 😒

Note: I lied... this is not the end. But I swear this is the penultimate chapter of Consent. Buckle up - it’s a bumpy one 🫢

Originally, there wasn't going to be any smut in this part, but then I read @ezrasbirdie's amazing Dentist!Ezra series, specifically Slick 🥵 and I couldn't stop thinking about a *certain position*, and... this happened. Thank you for letting me use the idea for Dieter, Birdie!

Week 13

As it turns out, deep within the well of infinite chaos that is Dieter Bravo, there is wisdom.

‘Fake Date Gate’, as it has been dubbed by someone in the sound department and quickly adopted by everyone else, does blow over with little pomp and circumstance. A Dieter Bravo newsflash with no full frontal nudity, sex or drugs? Hardly sells any papers.

But on set, it’s a different story.

You bustle into the studio side by side with Dieter on Monday, two days after the story dropped and abruptly fizzled out. Your nose is in the script while you rattle off last-minute changes in the scene at him, your mind having completely moved on from the paparazzi fiasco.

An intense heat floods you as you’re blinded by an unexpected spotlight pointed at you both. Before you can bite out what the fuck, you’re stopped in your tracks by raucous cheers and applause, and you feel embarrassment blooming on your hot cheeks as your pre-coffee brain finally catches on.

Dieter graciously bows at the cheering crew and tries to deflect the attention, but when the noise does not abate, he grins and pulls you close by your waist. He murmurs under his breath, ‘Let’s put on a show, sweetheart.’

Mercifully, he only presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, which is enough to assuage your colleagues, but it still makes you flush to the tips of your ears.

And so it goes for the next couple of days.

When people you hardly recognise wolf whistle at you two walking down the corridor, Dieter indulges them by intertwining his fingers with yours, and bringing your hand up to press a kiss on the back of it. He doesn’t let go even when you turn the corner and out of their sight.

When you’re waiting for the coffee to brew in the break room with Dieter and someone hollers playfully, he comes up behind you to wrap his thick arms around your waist, chin on the top of your head, while the machine whirrs, long after the instigators leave the room.

He doesn’t need to tell you that he enjoys hamming it up for these little skits, knowing full well that everyone else thinks that he’s acting - but you.

It’s Wednesday, and it's time to face the reckoning - Ruth is working at the canteen while you’re on your lunch break.

You steel yourself, pasting on your sweetest smile and walk confidently up to her. ‘Hi Ruth, how are you doing? The new hair colour looks great on you.’

In lieu of a response, Ruth doesn’t break eye contact while she scoops wet, broken layers of lasagne onto your plate, which land with an unappetising splat. The smile on your face wilts.

You’re staring at your lunch in despair when a voice pipes up behind you. ‘Ruth, my sweetling, how are you today?’

She gives Dieter a pout. ‘I’ve been better, not going to lie.’

You glare at him when he gets handed a huge, perfectly sliced piece of lasagne. Dieter goes on to console her. ‘Baby, you know you’re my favourite, right? This one?’ He jerks a dismissive thumb in your direction, before pushing you away and making a blugh face. ‘Just some PR stunt.’

Your eyebrows reach for your hairline, but before you get any words out, Dieter is steamrolling you towards the cutlery station.

‘What the fuck was that?’ you splutter.

He reaches over you to grab forks and knives. ‘Saving your life, duh. Do you want her to poison your food? Because she would've. You’re welcome, sweetheart.’

You slide your tray down and pluck an iced coffee from the fridge. You grumble to yourself, ‘PR stunt? With an intimacy coordinator? That doesn’t even make any sense.’

He follows hot on your heels after he nabs a green juice. ‘C’mon sweetheart, you’re not mad at me for being sweet on Ruth, are you?’

Tobias waves as you power walk past his table. ‘Bravo, you with us or the missus?’

He winks at the director. ‘Sorry man, gotta sit with my girl.’

You roll your eyes as he follows you to your table where your friends are seated. ‘Excuse me. I didn’t say you could sit with me. And don’t call me that.’

He ignores you, fistbumping Pete and high-fiving Ana, making himself comfortable next to you.

Pete sighs, wriggling his fork at you. ‘My favourite lovebirds. I call best man.’

‘You can’t just call best man,’ Ana chides, chewing on her salad, but decides she doesn’t want to miss out. ‘I call maid of honour.’

You cradle your head in one hand, while shoving at the limp excuse of a lasagne with your fork. ‘Oh god, when will all this be over?’

Dieter slurps on his juice, and taps on the table emphatically with his index finger. ‘Listen, sweetheart. The more you resist, the longer it drags on for. The more you lean in, the quicker people get bored.’

Pete holds his face between his palms, beaming from ear to ear as he declares, ‘Not me, I’ll never get bored of the two of you.’

You narrow your eyes at him. ‘Pete?’

‘Yeah, babe?’

‘Fuck off.’

He blows a kiss at you. ‘Never.’

Dieter points a finger at Pete and warns him, slightly garbled, through a mouthful of lasagne. ‘Hey, lay off my woman, punk.’

‘Don’t talk while you eat, Bravo,’ you admonish, wrinkling your nose at him.

His grin drips with lasciviousness and you quickly regret your words. Heat flares beneath your skin when his tongue darts out to lick at a smudge of tomato sauce on the corner of his plush lips. He practically purrs at you, ‘That’s not what you said last night, sweetheart.’

A half-chewed romaine leaf flies out of Ana’s mouth and lands in Pete’s pea soup, but fortunately for him, he’s too busy choking on his coffee to notice, thumping his chest with a clenched fist as the liquid goes down the wrong way.

Over the commotion, Dieter shoots you a cheeky smile, and you have to chew the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from grinning back.

It’s the toughest job you’ve ever been in the running for. You’ve had four rounds of interviews so far, each with a different panel, all scheduled before 7am or after 10pm, which are the only time slots the various directors of casting, photography or producers have been available. If you do get the job, you know you have long days to look forward to.

Dieter helps you prep for your interviews and orders Deliveroo when you’re on your Zoom calls so you don’t starve. He gives you a good luck kiss before and holds you in your self-doubt after.

It’s a nerve-wracking wait for the final decision. You don’t have a Plan B. If you don’t get it, you might be out for months before something else comes along, burning your savings in the meantime.

It’s Thursday and you’re about to head to the break room for a much-needed coffee when your phone screen flashes. It’s a Canadian number.

You press the green button with trembling fingers, and you can’t help the quiver in your voice. ‘Hello?’

At that very moment, Dieter’s eyes meet yours across the set, where Ana is dusting setting powder over his forehead. The hand over your mouth can’t hide the grin of disbelief that’s broken across your face.

One look at your smile and he comes running.

That particular part seems most baffling to the crew, none of whom has seen Dieter at any pace beyond a leisurely swagger.

He all but knocks you off your feet, and you cling to his shoulders, balancing precariously on your tippy toes and his hands on the small of your back.

‘I’m so proud of you, sweetheart,’ he whispers, knowing full well the microphones are feeding his words to everyone wired to the audio.

The I’ll show you how much later, in his eyes - that’s just for you.

The next day, Dieter signs the Linklater contract. Rebecca insists on taking you and Dieter out to dinner with her husband at a rowdy Italian trattoria where the food keeps coming. It’s so loud that you have to shout to hear each other over the racket.

Hank is a Hollywood divorce attorney, and the three of them are obviously very close. You listen to them talk about their daughter, and how the last time they had Uncle D over was for Christmas and that he should come around for dinner before he flies to Italy.

Rebecca covers your hand with hers, glass of wine in the other. ‘You must come along, darling. The last time I let Dieter bring a girl over, Coco was still missing her front teeth.’

‘I would love to, but I think I might be in Canada by then,’ you reply noncommittally, and the conversation meanders in another direction.

Dieter’s hand on your knee wanders higher as the wine goes down. You’re buzzed enough on drink that you don’t protest when he snakes his arm around your waist halfway through the pasta course, his palm resting possessively on the swell of your hip and it stays there all night. You let him feed you tangles of spaghetti bolognese and eggplant parmigiana, giggling when he makes a mess and wipes you off clumsily with his napkin.

You spotted far more famous faces on the way in so you know you could get away with it.

Hank pours you both some more wine, and asks conversationally, ‘So how long have you guys been together for?’

Rebecca elbows him so hard he spills about half a glass onto the table. He splutters, ‘Honey, what was that for?’

The question hits unexpectedly hard, and you try to cover up your discomfort by bringing up your glass of wine to your lips for a long sip. The thought comes to you, uncalled for - in a week, it wouldn’t matter.

Clearing your throat, you excuse yourself to go to the washroom. Gripping the cool porcelain of the sink, you study yourself in the mirror. The elation of these two days is slowly wearing off…

And you have no idea where you stand.

You know what you agreed to. In a week, your job is over. This is over.

Unless - no. In a month, you will be an Atlantic away from each other. There’s no way. No point thinking about that.

You’re shaken out of your thoughts when an out-of-tune birthday serenade floats through the door. You give yourself one last check in the mirror, smooth out your skirt, and head for the exit.

When you sidle out of the bathroom, you’re promptly cornered by Dieter, who backs you up against the wall and kisses you fully on the mouth. His tongue is bitter with the red wine he’s been drinking all night, sliding wetly along your lower lip, hands impatiently squeezing your ass over your skirt. The buzz of the restaurant is right behind him.

You try to squirm out of his grip. ‘Dieter, anyone can walk in on us.’

‘Don’t give a fuck, sweetheart. I want everyone to know you’re mine.’

It hurts, because you can’t be. But he’s too far gone to notice. So you close your eyes and you let him steal your breath away with a kiss so deep that you have to physically steady yourself when he pulls away.

You put on a brave face. ‘Let’s go home.’

The next morning dawns wet and cold. You wake up far too early considering the amount of alcohol you still have sloshing around in your bloodstream.

So you draw a bath - extra bubbles, extra hot. You set your half-empty mug of tea on the floor next to the tub and step in, sighing deeply as you sink into the water, letting the bath draw out your hangover like poison from a wound.

You only realise you’ve drifted off when the burn of moustache dragging on your cheek wakes you up. The water is still quite warm, so you can’t have been out for long.

‘Why aren’t you in bed with me?’ Dieter whinges into the side of your neck, his tongue on your sensitive skin, large hands wrapping around the edge of the bath on either side of you. He’s always extra needy when he’s hungover.

You tilt your head back at him and shrug. ‘Felt like taking a bath.’

He leans over and kisses you upside down - Spiderman style, you think to yourself with a silent giggle - your fingers grasping onto the lapels of his ratty green robe. He growls into your ear, ‘But I feel like fucking.’

You roll your eyes. ‘I’m not the one who started snoring the second we hit the bed last night.’

With a wolvish grin, he grabs your hand and guides it over his erection under the robe. ‘I’m ready now, sweetheart, and that’s what counts.’

You stay put, holding his gaze while you pull on the tie of his robe. His uncovered cock rises over you as you reach up and close your palm around it, and he moans at the contact, brow creasing. Over the floral scent of your bath you smell him - salty and musky.

Shifting so you sit up higher in the tub, you run your tongue over the base of his cock and over his balls, making him shudder and his voice catch. ‘Sweetheart.’

‘What do you want, Dieter?’ you tease, rubbing your cheek against his velvety length.

He pins you with his dark eyes. ‘Please suck my cock. Please.’

An idea comes to you. You relax your shoulders and let your head hang back over the porcelain edge as far as possible, your elbows resting on the side of the tub to hold yourself in position. Your tits hover just above the water line, and you feel your nipples pebble in the cold morning air. You arch an eyebrow at Dieter as he gapes at the picture you make. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’

‘Fuck,’ he swears and runs a thick finger along the bow of your upper lip, before pushing two inside, stroking himself with his free hand. ‘Gotta open up that mouth for me, baby.’

You suck on his digits, swirling your tongue around the tips, which makes him shiver. Pulling back, you give him the most debauched smile you can manage. ‘Put your cock in my mouth, Bravo.’

Eyes wild, he steps forward and traces the weeping head of his length over both your lips, before dipping carefully inside. You can’t help groaning at the pressure on your tongue, and he chuckles, but the tight pinch of his fingers on your jaw betrays his tension. ‘I’m barely in, baby. Wider.’

You oblige, unlocking your jaw, and he pushes in with sudden ease, sliding in so deep you nearly choke. Dieter exhales heavily through his nostrils. ‘Yes. Shit, that’s so good, sweetheart.’

Your throat feels taut in this angle, and he feels so big as he begins to slides in and out. You have to focus on breathing through your nose as he fucks your mouth.

You feel his fingers weave into your hair, gripping tightly as an anchor. ‘Such a pretty mouth,’ he praises you. ‘Such a good girl, letting me fuck you like this first thing in the morning.’

You shudder, as you feel a gush of want seep from your pussy, your back arching at his words.

‘You like me talking to you like this, hmm?’ he asks, his voice deep and rough. ‘When you can’t talk back, with my cock in your mouth?’

You hum around him, which makes his entire frame shake. He moans, ‘Wanna fuck your pussy, baby. Do you want me to? Can I?’

You nod as best as you could - not easy with his cock pinning you to the bath - and when he pulls out hastily, you gasp in a deep breath and sit up too quickly, which makes your head spin. You hardly recognise your own voice as you beg, ‘Yes, want you inside me - please Dieter.’

Robe falling heavily onto the heated floor, he climbs into the bath behind you, and you twist around so that you can kiss him, fingers tangling in his unruly hair. Dieter stretches out his legs and positions you above him, your knees on either side of him. He slides two fingers between your thighs under the soapy water and rubs your clit studiously, while he mouths at your breasts, heavy with arousal and covered in suds.

Grasping his length, you hurriedly position yourself over him and notch him at your entrance, hands on his shoulders.

‘Whoa, whoa, sweetheart,’ he asks you to slow down, the span of his palms on your hips steadying you. ‘I haven’t even opened you up with my fingers yet.’

‘I can take it,’ you assure him, and with a roll of your hips, you start your slow descent.

He’s only just breached you before he groans shakily, nails digging into the meat of your hips. ‘Fuck - sweetheart - you sure? Haven’t even touched you yet… you’re really tight -’

The stretch is almost painful, and your noses knock together as you sink lower onto him. ‘You’re so big, Dieter,’ you whine, relishing the snug fit.

‘I know baby, you’re making me so hard for you,’ he croons into your ear, before sucking on the lobe. He lets go of your left hip so he can draw lazy circles on your clit, slicking up your pussy. ‘But you’re doing so well, sweetheart. I’m almost there.’

With his encouragement and one more shift of your hips, you are fully seated, the sheer size of him sheathed so tightly inside you making your tremble.

Dieter chuckles in almost delirium, leaning forward to place a messy kiss on your swollen lips. ‘There she is. You feel fucking amazing, sweetheart.’

‘Wait till I start riding you,’ you shoot back cockily, high on his praise.

‘You’re mouthy this morning,’ he grins at you, which falters when you start a slow slide upwards, the tips of your nipples dragging against his chest. ‘Oh, fuck -’

Water swishes around you as you move on him, your cunt sliding with more ease now, getting wetter as your clit drags against his pelvic bone each time you rock against him. He’s sprawled back against the tub, the tip of his tongue peeking through his slightly open mouth, breathing hard. ‘Wish I could watch my cock go in and out of you, sweetheart. Bet it's a pretty sight.’

You grin and hold onto the edge of the tub behind him, kicking up the pace. ‘I’m not fucking you hard enough if you’re still talking in complete sentences, Bravo.’

He laughs and snaps his hips up into you, hitting somewhere deep inside which makes your breath stutter. ‘Ditto, sweetheart.’

There isn’t much talking after that, definitely not when he flips you around so that you’re on your knees, hands on the edge of the tub, ass hovering above the bubbles. Dieter delivers a sharp slap to your plump cheek, which echoes wetly in the bathroom and you cry out needily. He traces his tip along your folds, watching himself dip shallowly inside you, keen ears picking up the wet squelch as he does. ‘Told you I want to watch this pussy while I fuck it.’

You cry aloud when he thrusts into you, hitting you so deep you feel it in your toes.

‘Dieter,’ you sob breathlessly. ‘That feels so fucking good.’

He sets a merciless rhythm, two fingers on your clit now, rubbing insistently while your knuckles turn white as you claw at the edge of the tub. ‘You’re getting so wet on my dick, sweetheart. Gonna make you come so hard.’

‘Yes, please,’ you beg. ‘Harder, please. Give it to me -’ you’re cut off when a particularly hard thrust knocks the breath out of you.

‘Careful what you wish for now, baby,’ comes Dieter’s smug remark.

You clench your pussy around him hard enough that his footing in the tub slips, splashing water everywhere. You throw him a toothy grin over your shoulder. ‘Speak for yourself.’

Your triumph quickly melts into desperation when Dieter growls and pounds into you even harder. Water sloshes and the wet slap of skin on skin fills your ears. He’s panting loudly, and you know he’s almost there. ‘I’m so close, Dieter. Come with me,’ you plead.

‘Ok baby,’ he groans and rubs your clit just a bit faster. ‘You ready for me?’

You nod frantically, winding tighter and tighter until the ground gives from under you and your voice breaks. ‘I’m coming, oh my god, I’m coming -’

At the first throttle of your cunt, Dieter lets go, his hips driving brokenly and sloppily into you, fighting to stay inside your pulsing walls - impossibly tight, how could you have gotten any tighter after he's fucked you so hard - until he spills deep inside you in long thrusts of hot and thick release.

‘Baby,’ he gasps into your ear as his knees buckle, but manages to catch the side of the tub with one hand before he collapses on you. The sudden movement pushes the now lukewarm water aggressively against the side and spills over the edge. ‘Fuck, you almost killed me.’

You grin. ‘Still complaining about me not staying in bed with you?’

He grabs your chin and twists your face around to kiss you, then retorts, thumb dipping into your swollen lower lip. ‘Still so mouthy? Guess I didn't fuck it hard enough.'

You shiver when he pulls out of you in one slow motion, and he watches in rapture as his spend leaks from your puffy lips, fingers swiping gently over the mess he made. He groans, ‘I’ll never get tired of seeing your pussy dripping with my cum.’

You shudder from both his words and the water that’s quickly getting cold. ‘Keep saying things like that and we’ll be here forever,’ you quip.

You nearly wince. Forever is a poor choice of words.

Dieter seems oblivious to your over-analysis, turning you around to pull you tight against his chest. ‘Sounds good to me, sweetheart.’

The afterglow doesn’t last as long as you hoped it would. The quiet dread that has wormed into your consciousness since Friday night dinner is clinging to you and you can’t shake it. You managed to palm off your quietness for the rest of Saturday as tiredness from the antics in the bath, which prompted a self-satisfied smirk from Dieter and no more questions.

Your saving grace comes in the unexpected shape of big manila folders delivered to the both of you early on Sunday morning, packed full of scripts, schedules and other paperwork for your next respective projects. You desperately need the distraction and you dive in gratefully as the rain continues to come down outside.

You watch him from the opposite end of the couch. You’re wrapped up in his favourite green robe, the same one he was wearing in the bathroom yesterday. It’s ridiculously soft and it swallows you whole. Your fingers barely poke out from under the long sleeves, which flutter busily over miscellaneous papers that you’re going through methodically.

On his end, Dieter has his papers spread about haphazardly, which is nothing new. He’s leafing through the final script, which is much thicker than the abridged one that you read with him a few weeks ago. A pen dangles from his mouth, which he plucks out of his teeth to annotate the pages every now and then.

You let another hour of diligent silence drift by before you work up the nerve to say, ‘You know, I was thinking - I’ll leave this coming Saturday morning, after the wrap party on Friday. My contract ends the same day.’

It takes him a beat to look up at you through his reading glasses, lips pursed. ‘Ok. Where are you going?’

‘Home.’

‘Where’s home?’

‘Two and a half hours drive north.’

‘Ok,’ he shrugs, then goes back to his script.

You blink. Did he just give you a… shrug?

You clear your throat, shifting in your seat. You try again. ‘So - when do you fly to Italy?’

He rustles through a stack of papers till he finds what he’s looking for. Tilting his head to the left instead of turning the page right way round, he reads from his schedule, ‘Second week of May. The week after I finish reshoots.’

‘I fly to Canada the same week.’

‘Ok.’

That’s one too many ok’s for you to handle right now. You get up and mumble something about making tea, pulling his robe tight around you, as if it will stem the hurt blooming in your chest.

What the fuck is going on? He’s always been the one pushing for more. He’s always made you feel wanted. He’s the one who followed you to this fucking apartment, he said fuck lying low. He took you on a double date with Rebecca and Hank.

And now when you tell him you’re leaving in six days’ time - he says ok?

With the kettle boiling and your back to him, you don’t try to stop the tear that slides down your cheek.

Week 14

The last week of filming is always intense, Resurgence is no different. All week, it’s been a matter of physically making it back to the apartment and collapsing into bed. You’ve both been ships in the night - either you have a late call with HBO or Dieter has one with the Linklater team. One of you is always asleep by the time the other gets back. Besides time shared on set, you only see each other over a rushed breakfast in the morning before heading into the studio.

On Thursday night, Dieter makes it back to the empty apartment just before 8:30pm. He realises with a start that it’s the last evening you two have together before principal photography ends the next day.

Shit. He’s really let the week slip by. Grabbing his phone, he crash lands sideways on the couch and opens up Deliveroo.

When you walk through the door half an hour later, your eyes widen at the boxes taking up the entire coffee table, while Dieter fusses with unboxing and rearranging them.

Your bag slides off your shoulder as you stare, stunned. ‘Dieter, this is way too much food! See what happens when I let you order?’

‘C’mere, sweetheart,’ he grins, making space for you on the floor, patting the cushions next to him.

Folding your knees, you sit cross-legged, giving him an assessing lookover. ‘Have you finally lost it?’

He chuckles. ‘No, baby. This is Deliveroo: our greatest hits.’

Sweeping your eyes over the dishes, you recognise some of your favourite takeout that you’ve ordered over the past couple of months - crunchy tuna roll from the tiny Japanese joint around the corner, artichoke and burrata pizza from the Italian place that always throws in a free tiramisu, baja fish tacos from the food truck nearby and -

You frown at him quizzically. ‘Poutine? We never ordered poutine.’

He plucks a gravy soaked fry and feeds it to you. ‘That’s to acclimate you to Canadian food.’

Your chest swells with warmth and you can’t help the laugh that escapes you. You lean in to give him a soft kiss. ‘Thank you. Lucky I skipped lunch today.’

You’ve worked through about a third of the food when your eyes alight on what looks like a tagine. You tap on the container. ‘We never ordered this.’

Dieter grabs the box and shovels a spoonful of the stew into his mouth. ‘We didn’t. I did - that same night I ate you out for the first time.’

His answer is so unexpected that the pulled pork quesadilla nearly goes down your trachea.

He winks at you. ‘Gotta say it tasted better last time.’

You admit defeat around halfway through the food, and Dieter follows suit, flopping heavily on his back onto the couch, his tshirt riding up to show a sliver of his soft belly underneath.

You climb onto him, your smaller body fitting perfectly on his broad chest, the top of your head tucked under his chin. You yawn lazily. ‘I’m stuffed.’

He combs his fingers through your head and you feel the vibrations in his chest when he replies, ‘I like it better when you’re stuffed with something else -’

‘Must you be so crude?’

‘You love it.’

You shift. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it - but the very word makes you uncomfortable. You don’t want to associate him or anything about him with that word. Not when the end is tomorrow.

You fold your hands over the centre of his chest, feeling his heartbeat underneath. You prop your chin up on the back of them, and you smile into his warm eyes. He tucks a stray strand of your hair behind your ear.

‘You liked it?’ he asks, just a touch of uncertainty in his voice.

You hesitate, but you decide he deserves the truth. ‘I loved it.’

He nods off not soon after, snoring quietly. But you lie awake, eyes wide, your heart in knots as the quiet hours creep in.

‘And it’s a wrap!’

Cheers erupt, echoing like thunder in the studio as the lighting guy turns on dramatic disco lights. Dieter reaches over and pulls Brooke in for a hug, and over her shoulder, he meets your eyes from across the room.

It’s done - fourteen weeks of principal photography. Reshoots start next week, but the schedule is much more relaxed, and he’s ready to wind down before doing it all over again in Italy.

Dieter wants to make his way to you, but he keeps getting waylaid by various members of the cast and crew. By the time he’s released from Tobias’ bear hug, you’re gone from his line of sight.

He didn’t see you over lunch today as Rebecca popped in for an impromptu meeting, which he wasn’t too pleased about. He wonders if you’ll hitch a ride with him to the wrap party downtown, but reckons you’re more likely to share an Uber with Ana and the makeup girls. He decides he’ll meet you at the club as he gets ushered back to his trailer to change out of his costume.

The club pulses with generic dance music and most of its occupants are already knee deep in drink by the time Dieter arrives. He makes his rounds, giving high fives and shaking hands as he circles the room, looking for you.

Spotting Pete, he wades through the crowds and they exchange a hug. Dieter asks if he’s seen you.

Pete looks confused. ‘I’m pretty sure she said you were giving her a lift.’

Ana stumbles into sight, throwing her arms around Dieter. He asks her about you as well. She shakes her head. ‘Oh no, she definitely said she was coming with you.’

Something doesn’t sit right. He calls you, but the line rings out all three times.

Then he calls his driver and pushes his way out of the club.

The door knob jangles with sudden violence, which makes you jump back and hug to your chest the item you were just folding up to pack away. The door swings open, hitting the wall behind it forcefully.

Dieter’s eyes travel slowly. Firstly over you, wound up tight as a corkscrew, then at the large packed suitcase standing by the door, and finally at the slightly smaller one lying splayed open on the floor.

His tone is accusatory as he slams the door shut behind him. ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You said you’re leaving tomorrow.’

All the self-doubt and resentment that has been simmering just under your skin this past week finally breaks the surface. And you deal with it the only way you know - angrily.

You glare at him. ‘What difference does one night make? It’s not like you care.’ You spit the last word out like it's acid on your tongue.

Dieter looks at you incredulously. ‘What the fuck are you on about? How do I not care? I ordered you all the fucking Deliveroo that you like just last night, in case you don’t remember!’

You feel your shackles come up, and you yell back. ‘But when I told you I was leaving, you said ok - what kind of an answer is ok? You didn’t even ask me where I live!’

‘Why do I need to ask if I’m going with you?!’

It’s your turn to look at him incredulously. ‘What?’

‘I’m coming with you,’ he explains impatiently, like it's the most obvious thing in the world and he cannot believe it isn’t to you. ‘I’ll commute to the studio. I don’t have reshoots every day. I can stay with you.’

‘Bold of you to assume you could just come with me without asking,’ you retort sarcastically.

Dieter’s eyes narrow. ‘I came here with you, didn’t I? Why wouldn’t I go with you?’

Your conviction in the decision to leave, precarious as it already was, slips dangerously at his argument. But you shake your head. ‘Ten minutes down the road is very different from two and a half hours away, Dieter. And we agreed to stop after filming.’

Dieter throws his hands up in disbelief. ‘Not this bullshit again, sweetheart. You said you didn’t want to stop! That's what you said when I asked after Week 10 drinks, when I found out about Canada!’

‘Tell me - do you want to stop, sweetheart?’

‘No, no, don’t stop, please, I’m so close - I don’t want to stop -’

‘That’s it, that’s a good fucking girl - not gonna stop - ’

You feel heat swell in your stomach and climb up your spine at the memory. You can’t handle that - not now. Finding your voice, you argue weakly, ‘I said - I meant I didn’t want to stop during production.’

He scoffs with a shake of his head. ‘Bullshit, sweetheart.’

You try a different tact. ‘So what if we had another month? We still have to stop when we fly to opposite sides of the world.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me!’ you point a finger straight at your heart, which is fucking aching. ‘I don’t want to be with someone who’s 6,000 miles away! I can’t.’

But he won’t drop it, he keeps pushing, taking two steps towards you. ‘Why the fuck not? Tell me why not!’

Because you’ll get bored.

Because you’ll find someone else.

Because it will hurt too much.

Except that you don’t say any of it out loud - you can’t. The empty space between you lies heavy and cold.

Dieter’s gaze doesn’t waver, holding yours this whole time. But you can’t bear to look at him.

‘So this is it?’ he breaks the silence, and you let out the a shaky breath you didn’t realise you were holding out.

You shrug, shifting your grip on the bundle you are still hanging onto. ‘I guess so.’

The movement directs his attention to the familiar pinstriped green cloth in your arms. You watch as his eyes light up, and one eyebrow arches in curiosity. ‘Is that - is that my robe?’

Your fingers clench around the soft fabric. Oh, fuck me sideways.

Suddenly, Dieter doesn’t look so angry anymore. In fact, a small smile lifts his entire countenance. Crossing his arms leisurely, he says chattily, as if you weren’t in the middle of a breakup. ‘Just to be clear - you’re stealing my robe?’

‘No,’ you say quickly.

‘You folded it up real nice, sweetheart. Looks like it would fit into that little nook right there above your shoes,’ he nods at your open suitcase.

You blink and try not to wince as the words leave your mouth. ‘I was just tidying up.’

He grins with teeth. ‘I clearly remember you putting it away in the wardrobe a few days ago. You insisted on washing it after I dipped it in soup.’

You curse the day you were born. Why are you such a shit liar?

Dieter shuffles in a bit closer, but not too close. He doesn't want to spook you. He tuts, a playful smile lingering on his lips, hands behind his back. ‘You broke the cardinal rule, didn’t you? You fucked up, sweetheart. You have feelings for me, and you’re punishing me for it.’

Oh, fuck.

‘Don’t talk about me like you know me, Bravo,’ you snap.

‘But I do, sweetheart.’

‘You don’t,’ you spit back. ‘You’ve known me for all of three months - big fucking deal.’

‘Now you’re trying to distract me, you little spitfire. You’re so obvious. It’s cute, really.’

‘Shut up.’

Dieter cocks his head at you. ‘You know, that’s a lot of words coming from you, sweetheart. But none of them are - no, I don’t have feelings for you, Dieter.’

For once, you don’t have any words. You don’t protest. You don’t argue. You don't lie.

He steps confidently into your space, taking your chin between his thumb and index finger, knowing he’s got you. He's taller and broader than ever as he towers over you and slides his lips over your mouth in a no-nonsense kiss, swiping his tongue slowly against yours. He doesn't touch you anywhere else, but there's a slow burn in your blood, wanting him, always wanting him - then he exhales slowly and steps back from you.

‘I’m not going to try to change your mind, sweetheart,’ he tells you quietly. ‘You’re too fucking stubborn and you’ll just resent me even if I do. But I can wait. When you get out of that head of yours, you know where to find me.’

Not trusting your voice, you thrust his robe towards him silently.

He shakes his head and chucks you under the chin. ‘Take it. If you miss me too much, make your new boyfriend wear it and pretend it’s me.’

With one last wry smile, he turns on his heel and walks out of your life.

Dieter winces as Ana narrowly misses taking out his eye with a powder brush when she preps him for the first reshoot the following Monday.

‘She just left without saying goodbye, can you believe it?’ she rants, brushing his hair a bit too aggressively. ‘She called me to apologise last night, but I made sure to give her a piece of my mind.’

He snorts quietly. At least she got an apology out of you.

Ana pauses and gives him a look in the mirror. ‘She said goodbye to you, at least, right?’

He shrugs noncommittally. ‘Kind of.’

‘So - will you guys work it out?’

‘We put a pin in it.’

Ana must have sensed that he doesn’t want to talk about it, and she lapses into uncharacteristic silence while she heats up the hair curler.

Giving the makeup artist a nudge in the elbow, Dieter asks, ‘Do you have anything lined up after this?’

She turns her back on him while she rummages in her bag. ‘Got a couple of things in the pipeline, but nothing confirmed.’

‘Do you want to come to Italy? Be my makeup artist for the Linklater project?’

She spins around so fast that she knocks over a whole string of spray bottles, eyes wide. ‘Dieter Bravo, I’ll remind you that I’m holding a burning hot hair curler. if you’re joking, you better cut it out right now.’

He chuckles. ‘You know I wouldn’t joke about something like that!'

Ana pounces on him with a hug, and Dieter leans as far away from the curling iron as he can as she shrieks, ‘Yes, yes, a million times yes!’

When she lets him go finally, Dieter holds up a finger and says, ‘But I need you and Pete's help with something - well, someone.’

She shoots him a knowing look. ‘If you're talking about who I think you're talking about, you definitely need our help. I'm in.’

Dieter shakes her hand and grins, ‘We have a deal.’

Ana smiles kindly. 'Just so you know, I would've helped you even without the job offer.'

He nods. 'I know. Thank you.'

She squeezes him on the shoulder and grins at him in the mirror. 'Let's get you your girl back, Dieter Bravo.'

Four weeks later

You’re sorry to miss Ana’s bon voyage party, but your flight to Calgary was on the very same day. It’s the first time you’re living abroad for any length of time. You’ve packed two suitcases and that’s going to be your life for the next four months.

You let yourself be consumed by your new job. There’s so much more of everything in TV - more script, more actors, more hours. You work closely with Woody Harrelson, and you hit it off from the first day. He’s such a mellow guy and so easy to work with, you’re relieved to see no signs of any drama on set.

You keep in touch with Pete and Ana. Pete’s still on Resurgence, post-production now in full swing. Ana’s loving every second in Italy and posts every day without fail on Instagram, and you’re so excited for her to work on a Linklater project, if not a little jealous. She keeps bugging you to visit her, saying that she has a spare bed in her hotel room, and she can take you around.

In Calgary, you settle in slowly with your new crew. Quite a few of them are HBO veterans with their own established friend groups, so you feel a bit of an outsider. But you go to the group lunches and Friday night drinks, though you don’t stay too late, preferring to head back to the modest apartment the studio’s set you up in before midnight.

You would pour yourself a glass of wine, open up Instagram, and check Ana’s stories. It’s cold in Calgary, but in Italy, it’s starting to look a lot like summer. The seaside town filming is taking place in is colourful, houses painted pink and yellow and green, and the sea an amazing blue. You like Ana’s posts of sundresses and sunglasses, while you're cuddled up on the couch in Dieter’s robe.

There’s been radio silence from both your end and his since that day he walked out the door, before you could walk out on him. You catch glimpses of him in Ana’s stories - a wave at the camera, a thumbs up while chewing on pizza, talking to someone at the tail end of a panorama video - all out of costume, as per industry rules for in-progress projects.

When you’re tipsy enough, you don’t pretend to not feel the tug on your heartstrings every time you see his face.

He hasn’t updated his Instagram for months - not since Sundance. You still don’t follow him, but you check his page more regularly than you care to admit.

The weeks fly by. You forget how most projects are like this - routine, safe and steady. Two months in, it’s Friday evening again (the weeks are flying by) and you sit down for a glass of wine in your armchair. You pull up Instagram on your phone as usual, except, the very first post catches your eye and your heart lurches.

It’s a new post from Dieter. It’s a photo of him and a woman - she's gorgeous. You recognise her as the actress cast opposite him in the film. She’s a relative newcomer in her thirties, with a background in theatre. In the photo, she’s pressing her lips to his whiskered cheek in a kiss, and he’s smiling so widely that the corners of his eyes crinkle.

It fucking punches you in the gut.

He said he would wait.

Well, you suppose he’s waited two months.

You drink so much that night you pass out on the couch.

She starts to seep into Ana’s stories too, they obviously hang out socially outside of filming as a tight-knit group. She's eating pasta on a rickety table on the beach with him; or feeding him a spoonful of gelato; or pushing him into a pool, and falling in when he grabs her by the waist and pulls her in with him last-minute.

You Google her. Constance Green, 34, 5’7”, 125 pounds, 34D, nominated for an Olivier award five years ago. Single.

You know it's not healthy, but you begin to check her Instagram as well. Most of her posts are beautifully framed shots of the seaside town they’re filming in, but Dieter is in most of her daily stories, which she tags him in, and he also uploads them to his account.

The day before, it was a photo of them saluting the camera side by side with matching glasses of Aperol Spritz.

Yesterday, it was a selfie video of them sitting on a wall next to the lapping sea at sunset, which washes them in orange and gold light.

Today, she’s feeding him pizza - only her hand is visible in the shot as he finishes off the crust, pulling her fingers into his mouth to lick off the tomato sauce.

You literally throw the phone away as if it burns you.

You know you have no right whatsoever. You fucking know that, but it doesn’t stop you from sinking into a funk. You stop hanging out with the crew, and even Woody brings it up one day. ‘Hey, you okay? You don’t seem your chipper self.’

‘When have I ever been chipper?’ you quip with a forced smile.

He smiles kindly. ‘You’re not wrong. Homesick?’

You shrug. ‘Something like that.’

Two weeks after that fateful post on Dieter's Instagram that set you on your somewhat downward spiral, Pete visits you for the weekend. When you open the door to your apartment, he takes one look at you and grimaces. ‘Ugh, babe. Have you been sleeping at all?’

‘Fuck you!’ you gripe, but you pull him in for a long hug. You can really use a friend right now.

You spend the weekend gossiping, eating pizza and drinking beer while playing Sex and the City re-runs in the background. On Saturday night, you two spontaneously decide to Facetime Ana, who picks up promptly and after 30 seconds of excited squealing, she pans the camera to show you the piazza she’s hanging out in with a cold drink.

His mouth stuffed full of now cold pepperoni pizza, Pete is the first to bring her up. ‘Who’s that hottie Bravo’s been hanging out with? They seem to be joined at the hip.’

‘Constance? Oh, she’s super. So down-to-earth, and incredibly talented. Richard swears she’s the next big thing. I think Dieter’s smitten with her, to be honest. They make the cutest couple.’

You chew on the inside of your cheek, going deathly quiet.

‘Well, I say good for him,’ pronounces Pete. ‘There’s nothing like a good leading actor-actress romance. Like Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.’

Ana comes up with, 'Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens.'

'Alicia Vikander and Michael Fassbender,' adds Pete.

You clear your throat and get up abruptly. ‘Bathroom break,’ you mutter, stepping over empty beer bottles to make your way deeper into the apartment.

You splash water on your face and meet your eyes in the mirror. Pull yourself together. You chased him away. You didn’t want anything to do with him. You could have the decency to be happy for him. Or at least to not give a fuck.

Shutting the bathroom door behind you, you pad back to the living room. You hear Pete babbling on the phone. You can’t pick up the words, but his tone is bossy and rushed, which makes you frown and listen harder.

He’s on your phone and obviously not talking to Ana anymore. He gestures wildly with his free hand. ‘ - absolute mess, she’s crying her eyes out, man. I mean, if you can see the state that she’s in -’

Spotting your suspicious glare, Pete starts at a run around the tiny living room, easily keeping the phone out of your reach as he stands a foot taller than you. He continues speaking into the phone. 'What are you gonna do about, huh? Are you just gonna go about your life like it never happened? Cos that sounds like a stupid idea to me -'

You finally jump onto the couch and wrestle the phone from his grip. ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Pete -’ you trail off as look down at the name on the screen.

DIERDRE

Fuck. FUCK.

You hesitate for a second, thumb hovering over the red button, then you impulsive hold the phone to your ear. ‘Hey.’

There’s silence, then his voice comes on. ‘Hey.’

Your palms break out in a cold sweat. And all you can do is hope that your voice doesn’t shake. ‘I’m so sorry, Pete is being an idiot. He's just visiting me for the weekend in Calgary.’

‘It’s fine,’ he replies shortly.

You scratch your elbow idly. ‘I’m not in a state, you know. Not crying, or anything. I’m totally fine.’

‘Good for you.’

Then you both go quiet, until you hear a woman’s voice on his end. ‘Are you ready, baby?’

‘Sorry, I gotta go,’ he mumbles, but before the line goes dead, you hear him say, ‘Coming, sweetheart.’

Sweetheart.

That’s your nickname.

You glare at Pete, your eyes watering. ‘What the fuck was that?’

He puts his hands up in defence. ‘Worth a shot. You two are clearly being complete idiots and need some sense knocked into you. Sorry it didn't work.’

At the sight of tears spilling over and sliding down your cheek, he opens his arms and you let him wrap you in a comforting hug. ‘Come here, you blooming idiot. It will get better, I promise.’

And it does get better. You find your crowd, a group of backstage crew around your age, and you’re getting recognition on the job from the directors and producers. You hear veiled hints that you might get a contract renewal for the second season with a pay rise. There’s a bounce to your step when you show up to work in the mornings. You even forget to check Instagram most days now.

That is until you get a notification that Ana sent you a private message on the app the first week of July, so you click on the icon and wait for the app to load.

And there it is.

It’s a photo of their backs, on a cobblestone street, the dying light of day casting them in a warm glow. He’s wearing a light yellow shirt, sleeves cut off at his biceps, and linen shorts. His right arm is wrapped tight around her waist, and she has hers around him, left hand tucked in his back pocket.

You stop breathing. Then you see red.

This is your thing. After your date at the French bistro. You walked down the street just like that.

How. Dare. He.

Blindly, you scroll through Whatsapp until you see Ana’s name, and you click the call button. You don’t even know what time it is over there. She’s probably working. But you don’t give a damn at this very moment.

She picks up after four rings, sounding surprised. ‘Hello? You okay, hon? Or is this a butt dial?’

‘Not a butt dial,’ you reply firmly. ‘Listen, did you mean it when you said I could come visit?’

You have to hold your phone away from your ear when Ana shouts in excitement. ‘Girl - yes of course, I've been waiting for months! There’s a bank holiday coming up in Italy next week. Book your plane tickets, you can stay with me over the long weekend. I’ll introduce you to the whole crew and you can meet Richard.’

Yes sure, that’s why you’re going. To meet Richard Linklater.

‘See you next weekend.’

On the other side of the world, Ana does a happy dance and calls Pete as soon as she hangs up on you.

‘Hello?’

‘It worked! It worked - she’s coming to Italy next weekend!’

‘Fuck yeah! Finally! Have you told Bravo yet?’

Ana scans the set and spots the unsuspecting subject of their phone conversation talking to one of the assistant directors, and replies slyly, ‘I think he’d appreciate a surprise.’

‘Ana -’

‘Hey, don’t use that tone on me, Pete. He asked for our help, and he said we can handle the details. Her showing up unannounced is just one such tiny detail.’

Pete huffs, unconvinced. ‘If you say so.’

She grins into the phone. ‘I can’t believe it took two and a half months to crack that stubborn woman. But who cares - mission accomplished!’

Pete laughs. ‘You gotta take a picture of his face when she shows up. I can’t believe I’m gonna miss it.’

Dieter waves at Ana to ask for a touch up, and she gives him a thumbs up, signalling that she’ll be right over. ‘Oh, don’t you worry - I most definitely will.’

{ << Part 6: Confute | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Part 8: Concentric >> }

More notes: I know, I know, it's a cliffhanger... BUT at least it's not a mean one, right?! I have no idea how I thought I could fit everything into one chapter, even this part ran a LOT longer than my target of 6k 😂

I really hope you enjoyed this part, this was probably one of my favourites that I've written for this series. And next time, we will see how everything wraps up 🥺 THANK YOU all of you who have stuck with this story, your comments and reblogs are so so appreciated and have really motivated me to write the best story that I can for these two ❤️

#dieter bravo fanfic #dieter bravo x you #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x fem!reader #the bubble fanfic #dieter bravo x f!reader

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sashaisready · 2 months

Text

I'm Still Here - Chapter Four

Lee Bodecker (The Devil All The Time) x Femme Reader

In late 60s Meade, you’re married to Sheriff Bodecker, pregnant with your first child. On paper you’re the perfect couple – the respectable Sheriff and his homemaker wife. This should be one of the happiest times of your life…so why are the two of you living like ghosts? And is it too late to bridge that gap? Especially when your husband is playing a dangerous game.

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Violence, guns, mentions of crime - robberies etc, mentions of traumatic childhood, injury. This is the penultimate chapter, next part is the last!

Wordcount: 3.1k

Back in the past…

“Looks like we have ourselves an old-fashioned standoff here, Honeybee”. He told you stoically as he kept his eyes on you. If he was at all anxious, he didn’t show it.

“Sure seems that way” you smiled back.

The two of you remained still, pistols drawn and cautiously trained on each other. Both waiting to see what the other was going to do.

“Maybe you should put that down and come with me, Honey” Lee said softly.

His voice was smooth like molasses. Not like the other cops you knew. And you’d known many. You were intrigued by him, most of the rookies you got your hands on either trembled like schoolboys or went in too aggressively as if trying to overcompensate. Lee…he just seemed…interested? Amused?

Maybe you were interested, too.

You shook your head. “Sorry Lee, you know I can’t do that” you sighed.

“I know Honey…but the boys are outside with your friends right now, roundin’ them up…and it’ll be better for you to come quiet. Don’t you think?”

You grinned. “I never come quiet, Deputy Bodecker”.

He just snickered at your double entendre. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t ya?”

You shrugged at him teasingly.

“I meant it” he continued. “If you come willingly, it’ll look better for you. The judge might go easy on ya. You could tell him you were coerced…vulnerable…just a girl who got caught up in the wrong crowd and didn’t know what she was doin’. It happens all the time”.

A hollow laugh escaped you. “Nice try, Lee. But do you really think the judge and jury are gonna buy that the girl firing at cop cars during high-speed chases is vulnerable and clueless?”

“Mm. Worth a shot” he snickered again and narrowed his eyes.

“They’ll be okay, my gang. They always are. They’re slippery”.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that…but they only need to slip up once. Hubris is dangerous, Honey.”

“Don’t worry about me, Lee”.

“Well, I am worried. You strike me as the kind of girl who didn’t have no one worryin’ ‘bout her for a long time” he told you.

Your breath hitched. You knew this was a common cop tactic, them trying to empathise with you and lure you in with empty platitudes about how well they ‘know’ you…but his insight caught you off guard for a second just the same. You shook it off.

“I have Billy. And the gang. I do just fine” you replied curtly.

Lee nodded, studying you carefully. He kept the gun trained on you as his eyes bore into yours. “Mmm…if you say so, Honey. But I’ve met a lot of Billys in my time, and we both know he wouldn’t hesitate to sell you down the river if it meant saving his own ass. So maybe you should get the jump on him”.

That stung. You loved Billy, and he loved you too. This cop didn’t know you. Either of you. He knew nothing about you or what Billy would do for you. What you’d do for each other! He was just another pig.

Your face became an ugly scowl.

Lee watched, realising he’d pushed you too far. He felt a twinge of regret, not just at losing the opportunity to take a member of the infamous Cypress gang into the station, but strangely, he also didn’t like that he’d upset you.

“I told you, Bodecker, I do just fine” you told him angrily.

Before he had a chance to respond you fired the pistol, sending a warning shot into the wooden doorframe just above his head. He flinched and recoiled at the sound, and you took that moment of confusion to speed out of the front door.

Lee regained his composure and yelled after you, breaking into a run and pursuing you. He sprinted with his gun in hand just in time to see that damned VW bus belt it out of the property, with you sliding agilely inside through one of the windows.

The Cypress gang were loose once again.

Lee stood helplessly as Finlay and the squad approached behind him, some muttering obscenities and radio-ing back to the station. A couple of cruisers catapulted out of the driveway to follow the bus, but they all knew they were licked. Finlay clamped a paternal hand onto Lee’s back, assuring him that he’d get them next time.

Lee just nodded, staring thoughtfully out to the road.

That was the first time you met.

You met lots of times after that day.

Sometimes during busts. Sometimes on the road. Once even during a bank robbery. You and the gang always manage to evade them in the end, but there had been some close calls.

You and Lee always exchanged little looks or nods when you found yourself together again. Small waves. Eventually pleasantries. One time Lee surprised you in a barn you were laying low in after a particularly tiresome chase. He pinned you down against the dirt and the hay and you gasped a little at the feeling of his weight on you as he held you down and told you to be a good girl. You did your best to ignore the surge of electricity it sent through you. He even got one of the cuffs on you before you headbutted him and managed to speed away. Later, Cosmo had to cut them off using a saw and a file he’d stolen from a carpenter. Not your finest hour.

It was always nice to see him. You would feel a weird tingle in your stomach when he appeared. You’d find yourself searching the faces of cops during any showdowns and you’d feel a strange relief when you found him. You knew these feelings couldn’t mean anything good. You knew you had to move beyond it. But you couldn’t help yourself. As time rolled on you saw Lee grow from a rookie to eventually becoming Finlay’s right-hand man. He held himself more confidently, moving with more authority than before. His middle had softened, and his cheeks filled out as he rose through the ranks, but that was okay. He was still handsome, and there was something about his sturdiness that you liked.

You once had a blazing argument with Billy about him putting his own needs above the gang’s…it seemed to be happening more and more…and you’d stormed off to the gas station across from the sleazy motel you were staying in, eyes brimming with tears and jaw clenching in anger. You thought about how tiring this way of life was, how weary you were becoming.

You’d grown up with nothing, drifting between orphanages and group homes without so much as a doll of your own. You’d grown hard and distrustful, careful not to let anyway get too close lest they leave you again. You became tough, taking no shit from the other kids and establishing yourself as a figure not to be messed with. You stole from grocery stores to subsidise the measly food portions you were given, and that graduated to stealing more – a comb from the pharmacy, a make-up compact, a radio from the electronics store…and, eventually, cars. You found it all quite easy. You just had to push down any guilt you felt and remind yourself that you were the only person you could rely on.

You’d met Billy after you tried to pick his pocket on the street. Rather than turn you in, he pointed out where you’d gone wrong. You had thought he was beautiful with his blonde hair and intense eyes. He’d taken you under his wing and you followed him gladly. Of course you fell in love with him, how could you not? It was as if someone was seeing you for the first time, someone who saw the ugliness within you but didn’t flinch – if anything he welcomed it. He taught you everything he knew and introduced you to the others, and thus the gang was born. You had a warm bed every night, even if you moved around a lot, plus your belly was always full and you always had money in your pocket. Never before had these things been your reality. Yes, some of the stuff you got up to made you queasy, you remember the first time you’d shot a man and the sickening thwump of the bullet as it pierced his skin, but he was coming straight for you and it was you or him. And that’s what you told yourself. It was them or you. And you had to survive.

Billy had saved you and it was your job to save him too. So you looked out for him, had his back. You learnt to shoot and you got good at it, too. As long as you had each other you would be okay.

But after that argument, as you marched into the gas station with your heart pounding, you wondered if you were cut out for this life. Sometimes you questioned if you should just turn yourself in and give it all up. Hope for a sympathetic judge like Lee said. Jail would be tough but at least you wouldn’t have to keep running.

But it was too late. You’d gone too far now.

As you paid for a soda you caught a glimpse of yourself on the Wanted poster displayed behind the register. Billy’s was next to yours, then the others along from his. Fortunately, your hair looked a little different now and the picture quality wasn’t great. Still, you could never be too careful. You pulled your hat down and disappeared back out into the night. A ghost, like always.

Lee was dealing with his own confusing feelings. You were a felon, the opposite of everything his job stood for. It was his job to catch people like you and put them away, to protect the world from your kind. So why couldn’t he stop thinking about you? He so enjoyed the cat and mouse game with you, the excitement of catching you off guard and seeing the mischief across your face. As much as he wanted to capture you, he knew he would be slightly disappointed when that day came because it would be over. Strangely, he knew he’d miss you. Plus, the chase had ignited something in him, something primal and predatory. That day in the barn when he caught you, trapping you between his thighs as he watched the ‘o’ of surprise on your face as you realised, he’d bested you. He watched the glimmer of excitement in your eyes when he told you to be good. He felt the warmth of your body beneath him and imagined what it would be like to feel you properly. His rational mind screamed at him to stay away but he couldn’t help himself. Like a moth to a flame, you brought him back every time.

Of course, everything must end.

The shoot-out at Manville’s Farm had been bad. Really bad.

The cops had cornered you there after a robbery went wrong, it wasn’t a good spot to hide out, but it was the only option. Cosmo had been killed in the chaos and Violet had been captured. There was nothing you could’ve done to help them.

You and Billy were cornered in a woodshed, and you were bleeding from a bullet wound in your leg which you’d poorly dressed with a handkerchief. Billy was clutching onto the suitcase of cash he’d salvaged and was staring at it as if it held the answer to all your prayers. Things had been tough between you for a while now. You knew he was pulling away from you.

“Billy…” you uttered meekly.

“Shut UP, Honeybee” he barked. “I’m trying to think…”

He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as you both heard the heavy steps outside drawing closer. You exchanged a look, and you knew this was it. At least you’d go down together.

You turned to reach for his hand but to your horror he leapt to his feet and began to climb to the little window at the back of the shed.

“Billy!” you squeaked, unable to grasp the betrayal as he shimmied himself through the gap.

“I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry…Really, I am…” he shot you a glance of regret and then he was gone.

You gawped at the window in horror, your heart in so much pain you thought it would burst. A few moments later you heard a wail of pain somewhere in the distance followed by a series of curses, but you didn’t have time to really react before the door swung open. You already knew who it would be.

“Hi Lee” you said glumly.

He stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips, eyeing you carefully. At the very least, you were glad it was him who would be taking you away. He looked handsome, as always. His hair was shorter. His middle a little wider. But he was still Lee.

“That must smart” he said quietly as he looked to the wound on your leg. “Guess that’s why you ain’t runnin’ no more”.

You nodded.

“But I’m guessing Lover Boy abandoning you hurt even more”.

Your eyes filled with tears, and you nodded again.

He sighed, dropping to his knees and tenderly moving some hair from your face. He moved to reveal Billy’s suitcase of cash behind him, giving it a tap.

“If it helps…we got him”.

You scoffed. He betrayed you, and for what? To suffer the same fate anyway? What a waste. All of it had been a waste.

“He got caught in a bear trap Old Man Manville had put out to catch the stray dogs who go after his livestock. He’ll live, just in a lot of pain. The boys are with him now waitin’ on a medic. They’re all so excited to have caught Billy the Kid that the heat’s off you for now, Honey”.

“Idiot” you scoffed. Although the fact he suffered was a small comfort to you.

“So…it’s finally time huh?” he said kindly, his voice softening.

“I guess so” you said tearfully. “I’m sorry, Lee”.

“It’s okay, Honey” he cooed. “You’re okay”.

“I just…I don’t want to do it anymore. You know? I’m so tired…”

He nodded. “Well…you don’t have to, not anymore”.

“Can I tell you something, Lee?” you whispered.

“Anything, Honeybee”.

“It’s silly but…I sometimes dream about having a normal life. You know? Just being somebody’s wife…somebody’s mother. Keeping a home. Living simple. Is that dumb?”

He shook his head. “Not at all, Honey. I think that’s what most of us want”.

You both sat in the silence for a little while before he sighed.

“You know…I been offered a job over in Knockemstiff, Meade. Few hundred miles from here. They want me to be their Sheriff” he told you.

You furrowed your brow, unsure what this had to do with you. “Uh…okay”.

He took your hand, gingerly.

“Honeybee…come with me”.

You scoffed in disbelief. “What??”

“You heard me. Come with me. Marry me. Start that normal life you’ve always wanted…”

You laughed out loud. This had to be some weird joke. But you looked into his deep blue eyes, and he wasn’t laughing. He stood once more, his hands on his belt buckle as he watched you with utter sincerity.

“I can take care of things here” he said gravely. “You can start over. Both of us can. Nobody will ever know. We’ll be far enough away from anyone who might recognise you”.

You blinked at him. “You’re…serious?”

“I’ll take care of you, Honey. I know we don’t know each other well, yet, but we can. I think…I know…we can be happy”.

“I don’t…what? We…We can’t”.

“You know we can. You feel our connection. I feel it too”.

He must be insane. But clearly you were just as insane as him because you found yourself actually considering it.

“If I did…if we did this…they’d find me…”

“They wouldn’t. I’d make sure of it.”

You shook your head in disbelief.

“Even if we could…I’ve done bad shit, Lee. Real bad. Don’t you want a nice little wife who knows how to make a good casserole? Not some crazy bitch who knows how to hot wire a car”.

He laughed. “No. I want the crazy bitch”.

You scoffed again. “And even if I agree…how do you know I won’t just run out on you?”

“You won’t” he said confidently.

“I…I’m not a good person, Lee”.

And then he leaned over and kissed you. And you kissed him back. And the world was still for a moment. Your leg didn’t hurt and your heart wasn’t broken and you felt alive and right. He held your face as his tongue found yours and his big hands clung to your waist and everything sang, and everything lit up and something within you awoke in a way it never had with Billy. You found yourself clinging to Lee and never wanting to let go. There was something safe, just something right about it all.

Maybe it was because you were crazy. Maybe it was because it was the only option other than jail. Maybe because your heart ached from Billy’s betrayal. Maybe it was because you and Lee kept finding your way back to each other. And maybe it would just be nice for someone else to take care of you for once.

As you pulled away, you held his face in your hands and told him your real name.

And you said yes.

And so the story goes that the notorious Honeybee of the Cypress gang died that day. She hid in a woodshed on the Manville property which unfortunately exploded when she lit a match for a cigarette without spotting the leaking gas can just a few feet away. They didn’t find much of her, just her jacket and her shoes and not much else. A tragic end to the troubled runaway, who got caught up in the wrong crowd after her difficult childhood. So much promise, snuffed out in an instant. She would later become a cautionary tale told to wayward girls threatening to go off the rails – don’t end up like the poor, tragic Honeybee!

Sheriff Lee Bodecker moved to Meade shortly after his success with the Cypress bust and subsequent investigation of Honeybee’s death. He married a pretty, young woman he met at a diner, and the two became pillars of the community. A few years later they were reportedly expecting their first child, and happier than ever.

Present Day…

You heard the men coming up the stairs and you knew it was time.

Here’s hoping you remembered some of your old tricks…

I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I had great fun with it. As always I'm grateful for any reblogs or comments ❤️

#lee bodecker #lee bodecker x you #lee bodecker x female reader #im still here fic

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fayes-fics · 2 years

Text

Moments: Chapter 9

Moments Masterpost

PREV | NEXT

Pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Slow-burn fic. Follow on to No Good Advice probably best to read that first. Read previous chapters of this fic from masterpost here. In this chapter, Benedict makes 2 proposals!

Word Count: 2.2k (this chapter only, 14.4k total for all chapters to date)

Warnings: None…. fluff, fluff, flirting, kissing.

Authors Note: Here be the penultimate chapter in the adventures of James Darby and his parents. I thought I should release just this single chapter now, as a few people seem to be enjoying this story. There will be chapter 10 which may be quite long then 2 epilogues to follow. Thanks as ever to @makaylan for her fantastic betaing and advice. Could not have done this without you lady <3

Chapter 9: Moments from a long walk

Over the next few days, life is a wonderful lazy summer sojourn, filled with family picnics, spirited outdoor games and watching Benedict and James paint together and grow closer. James has missed a father figure after years with John, and watching him naturally bond with Benedict has made your heart soar. As you put him to bed the previous night, James asked if Benedict could move in with you both, and you cried a little after kissing him goodnight. Your moments around Benedict have become increasingly charged with an energy you feel humming over your skin. The way he looks at you, the stolen glances, it’s agonising and fantastic all at the same time.

Aubrey Hall has been a beautiful spot you don’t want to leave. On your penultimate day, Violet approaches you at breakfast.

“Y/n, I wonder if you would mind me spending the day with James? I'd like to get to know him better, and you could take the day for yourself. A nice long walk around the estate, perhaps? There are some beautiful views from the hills on the Eastern end of our lands.” She advises.

“Oh, that sounds lovely, Violet. I’m so happy you wish to get better acquainted with James. He really seems to like it here with all of your wonderful family, so different from our life, just the two of us, at Darby Hall. Thank you”

Just then, Benedict walks in and instinctually kisses James on the head before grabbing a cup of tea. The way he has taken to fatherhood so naturally is such a wonderful gift.

“He helped so much to raise Gregory and Hyacinth when Edmund died,” Violet explains, intuiting your thoughts as your eyes track him, “he was ready to be a father long before James came into his life.” She speaks quietly so James cannot hear.

You watch as James gets up from opposite you to grab more eggs, and he and Benedict chat and fill their plates with food.

“I assume there are no other claimants to the Darby line,” Violet breezes, keeping a heavy topic intentionally light.

“None. The family was small - my husband was an only son, of an only son, of an only son. From my research, all other lines of the family died off without issue to a current living heir. James being Viscount does bring unique challenges. I’ve had to learn a lot about estate management and accounts in a short amount of time,” you chuckle, “and obviously, James’ true parentage must be kept confidential within the family.”

“Of course,” she assures, “we would never dream of revealing something that would hurt one of our own,” she pats your hand affectionately, “and I’m not just referring to James,” she smiles indulgently.

“Thank you,” you blush, so happy to be considered part of the family.

Benedict and James sit down together. Their movements are almost comically in unison.

“The challenge,” Violet whispers, “will be quelling the rumours should these two be seen in public together; they are so very similar, it’s actually a little disconcerting.”

You huff a laugh as she giggles too.

“What’s so funny?” Benedict queries, looking at you both cautiously.

“Nothing, my dear,” Violet assuages, “Y/n will be going for a walk today while I spend time with James. I'm sure she could benefit from your extensive knowledge of the grounds, dear,” she suggests pointedly.

Benedict looks at his mother as if there is some secret code in what she is saying. “Yes, mother; I would be happy to,” his eyes fall to you, “if you wish it so.”

“Of course,” you answer, a little skip in your chest as you realise it will be a long walk with just the two of you.

—

An hour or so later, you find yourself strolling with Benedict on a path towards the hills. It’s a beautiful sunny afternoon with a light breeze, and the smell of wildflowers in the meadows fills the air. It’s the sort of day poems are written about.

It’s just the two of you. No servants or chaperones - such is the freedom bestowed on a widow. Benedict carries a leather satchel with water carafes slung across his body. He’s dressed less formal for your walk, just some tan trousers, brown riding boots, a white shirt loose at the neck and a simple brown suede waistcoat. He looks outdoorsy and very handsome. You wear a white cotton dress with simple embroidery and your most sturdy boots, ready for a bracing walk over the fields and hills.

As the grade of the path gets steeper, he offers you a hand over some gnarly tree roots; he does not relinquish his hold as the trail evens out again. So you walk hand in hand in companionable silence, observing nature and the views as you ascend.

As you reach the brow of the hill, you are afforded the most spectacular view over the Kentish Downs. A patchwork of fields, hedgerows, wooded copses and little villages dotted out as far as the eye can see.

“Oh, this is beautiful,” you exhale, shielding your eyes from the sun and drinking in the view and the sun's warmth on your skin.

“It’s my favourite spot on our estate, possibly the world,” he admits releasing your hand to take off his satchel, “I wanted to show you,” he confesses bashfully.

“Thank you, Benedict,” you reach out and squeeze his hand, “and not just for this, for everything this week. Inviting James into your family it’s been so wonderful for him. I can’t thank you enough.”

You dare a glance up at him, and he’s looking down at you with an expression that even you can recognise as devotion. He looks nervous, too, like he’s on the precipice of something important.

“I love you,” he confesses suddenly, grabbing your other hand, so he holds both. “I’ve loved you for six years–I never stopped. And I love James more than I ever thought possible, even in just a few days. It’s humbling, actually. I know it’s only been a very short amount of time since we’ve been reunited, but I don’t want to be your friend. I… I want us to be together. And not like before. That was wonderful, but it was less than what you, what we, deserve.”

You are reeling from that little speech as you watch him get down on one knee, his hair tousled by the winds. His eyes are a little watery as he looks up at you, still holding your hands.

“I can’t imagine my life without you and James. Please, will you do me the honour of being my wife?”

You stop breathing for a moment. Every piece of a jigsaw of the future suddenly falls into place.

“I… Benedict! Yes!!!” You grab his face, your eyes watering.

His lights up as you bend over, and your lips meet for the first time since that fateful day six years before. It’s like no time has passed, and you melt into each other as you always did. Passionate and loving. Without breaking the kiss, he stands up slowly and pulls you into a firm embrace.

“God, I’ve missed this; I’ve missed you so much,” he stutters against your lips, breaking the kiss just to breathe.

“I’ve missed you too, so much. I love you,” you murmur into his mouth.

You stand for what may be many minutes reacquainting yourself with each other’s kisses.

“Wait!” He breaks away. “I do have a ring!”

“You do?!” You giggle.

He fishes into the satchel he was wearing and pulls out a ring box.

“This was my maternal grandmother's ring,” he explains, “I figured the mother of my child should have a ring that runs in the female side of my family.”

Watery tears obscure your view of the ring, but you see it’s a lovely aquamarine ring flanked by tiny pearls on a delicate gold filigree band.

Your hand shakes as he places it onto your finger. It’s a little loose, but you don’t want to take it off.

“Benedict, it’s beautiful,” you stutter, “thank you”.

“I can’t take full credit,” he demures, “my mother marched into my room last night and pushed it into my hand, after I’d idly said I would want it one day. I suspect we would already be married if she had her way” he chuckles softly.

You giggle. “Yes, she and Kate have been discussing marrying into the Bridgertons all week.”

He rolls his eyes. “I'm so glad they didn’t scare you off.”

“Never,” you smile, “nothing could scare me away from you.”

He blushes so hard that you launch yourself at him and tackle him to the ground. Desperate to be with him; proper behaviour be damned.

“Wait… wait,” he laughs as you grab at his clothing. “I have another proposal,” he takes your hands from his body and holds them in his.

“I’m all ears, Mr Bridgerton,” you answer with a giggle as he rolls you gently under his frame.

“We do this properly,” he says enigmatically, bringing your hands up to his lips and kissing your knuckles, his lips lingering over the ring he gave you.

“What does that mean?” You frown playfully, intrigued, feeling a little breathless from just his hand kisses.

“It means we don’t do anything beyond kissing until our wedding night,” his voice husky, “like real newlyweds.”

“Are you serious?” you chuckle.

“Totally,” he hums, his lips tracing over each of your fingers in turn, “that will make it so much better, no? The anticipation.”

“But we have had so much sex…,” you respond, bemused, watching his lips intently.

“That was then,” he argues, stopping his ministrations to look into your eyes, “this is now. This isn’t a dalliance with an expiration date. This? This is real; this is marriage; this is making a family–you, me and James. This is forever.” His tone is reverential as he opens your hand and kisses your palm.

His impassioned speech once again has you slightly speechless.

“How long?” You ask when you find your voice.

“Hmmm?” He is distracted, kissing the heel of your palm, his warm mouth sucking gently, causing all your nerves to fire.

“How long until we can get married?” You clarify.

“Two weeks,” he replies, “unless we elope.”

“Let’s do that,” you rush out.

He chuckles as he runs his nose over the pulse point on your wrist. “My family might kill me if we did. But,” he pauses and sits up, bringing you with him and points at a church below, “we can marry in that little church right there in two weeks if we post our banns today.”

“Let’s do it,” you gasp, eager for the rest of your life to start.

He chuckles and points, “we can walk that pathway right there and be at the church in about twenty minutes.”

After a few more moments of admiring the view and a few stolen kisses, you begin your journey to the church, Arm in arm.

“Wait, where will we live once we’re married?” You ask.

“I don’t care, as long as I’m with you and James. I have my cottage; you and James have Darby Hall; we can live in either or both. It’s your decision, my love,” he says.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” you smile. “Actually, I guess as Viscount, it’s technically James’ decision,” you giggle “are you willing to follow the whims of a five year old?”

He laughs heartily, “My son has me wrapped around his finger already; whatever he wants, I will happily do.”

“He will be so excited; he asked me just last night if you could live with us,” you comment lightly.

Benedict stops walking. “Really?” His voice is thick with emotion.

“Yes, my love,” you reply, trying out the term of endearment yourself, “he already loves you.” You touch his face as you watch his eyes mist up. “We both do.”

He rests his forehead on yours and closes his eyes. “I missed so many years; I need to make it up to you both.”

“It wasn’t by choice, Benedict. Our lives before were dictated by circumstance; it’s the choices we make now that count. You never have to make anything up to James or me,” you assure, curling your hands around his face.

He nods understandingly.

Then you smirk a little. “Except maybe one thing”, you whisper huskily.

His eyes fly open at your tone, and his expression morphs into something heated and playful. “What is it?” he asks, “what do you need?”

“I’ve missed out on six years of sex with you. You have to compensate for that,” you smile, running your fingers into his hair.

“Oh, I do, do I?” He whispers, his crooked smile turning devastating.

“Oh yes. How long can we honeymoon for?” you murmur,

“I’ll ask my mother to take James for a whole week if you want,” he breathes, hands trailing up your back.

“Mmmm, better make it two, Mr Bridgerton,” you raise an eyebrow, and he swallows hard as you move in to kiss him.

“Your wish is my command,” he utters against your lips.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @queenofshinigamis @khaleesjj @starslibrary

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton fluff #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton

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rollingsins · 1 year

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three's a crowd, part eight

summary: you hadn’t expected this. to fall in love. with not one girl, but two. you hadn’t expected to ruin their friendship. love triangle au.

pairing: emma myers x reader, jenna ortega x reader

warnings: language, a sprinkle of angst.

word count: 3.1k

a/n: penultimate chapter, thanks all for being patient! finish line in sight!

For the first time in weeks, the set is peaceful.

No more are the slight jabs from Emma to Jenna. They don’t really talk much, but when they do it’s calm. Emma doesn’t ignore you, she’s even tentatively friendly. She strikes up small talk between takes, joins you and the rest of the cast for game nights and nights out.

She doesn’t flash about her relationship with Johnna - not like she once did. She isn’t trying to hurt you anymore, or make you jealous. She’s just existing.

It pangs somewhere deep down.

The fact she doesn’t care enough about you to try and affect your mood anymore.

But then you remember she’s happy.

Gone are the surly glares between takes. Gone are the nights spent hate-fucking you into the mattress. Gone is the doubt behind her eyes, the brief glances of insecurity when she’d looked between you and Jenna.

Now she’s enraptured in Johnna and she looks happy.

Happier than she was when she was with you, as much as it pains you to admit it.

She’s smiling at you now, just as the director yells cut.

She drops her phone to her lap and nudges your shoulder with her elbow.

“Come over for drinks tonight?” She’s asking, eyes sparkling, “I think Hunter wants to play Uno again.”

Hunter famously always wants to play Uno.

He hasn’t won once. But it didn’t stop him drawing out a pack of cards the minute he saw people gathered.

“Alright.” You say. Uno didn’t sound bad. There’d be enough people to keep you from staring at Johnna and Emma the entire night. Georgie would be there. Maybe even Jenna.

Your heart flips at the thought.

Seeing Jenna makes you nervous.

Things are weird - up in the air. You still have no idea what she’d said to Emma on the balcony, and each day that passes the dots you join in your own head get worse and worse.

“She’s not worth both of us fighting over her,” Says fictionalized Jenna 1.

“Let’s both dump her and teach her a lesson,” Says fictionalized Jenna 2.

The other possibilities pass through your mind fleetingly. Maybe nothing had been said, and Emma had just decided herself she was through with you. There’s another possibility - one you don’t even stop to consider.

The one you want the most…

But you don’t let yourself dwell. Doubtful Jenna would even want to be friends, anymore. Not after all that’s happened. She hasn’t reached out at all in the last two weeks. Hasn’t hovered, hasn’t done much of anything.

And the fact that she won’t tell you what was said that night seems to be the final nail in the coffin.

Georgie sidles over, pulls you from your intrusive thoughts, a stupid grin on his face.

“Coming to Uno tonight?” He asks, and you nod, peering suspiciously at the look on his face.

“What’s up with you?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed.

Georgie shrugs, “I’m just happy,” He says.

“Okay,” You say, “Why?”

“Everything’s good now. We’re playing Uno like old times, love is in the air…” He trails off, raises his eyebrows at you.

“You got a new girlfriend or something?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed.

Georgie rolls his eyes.

“No. But you will. Soon.”

You avert your gaze.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” You say.

“I heard she’s coming,” He says, as if he didn’t hear you, “To Uno.”

You hum. Try and brush past it.

He doesn’t let you.

“Come on,” He groans, “I thought we were getting somewhere. It’s been weeks since you and Emma broke up-“

“Two weeks,” You correct, “And we didn’t break up, I was dumped.”

“Who cares,” Georgie says, “There’s no point in wallowing. Other fish in the sea and all.”

He wags his eyebrows.

You stare at him, unimpressed.

“Jenna doesn’t want to date me.” You say, “She doesn’t even want to talk to me lately. It’s like she’s avoiding me or something.”

Georgie groans.

“She’s not avoiding you, YN,” He says, sounding aggravated, “She’s trying to give you space so you have time to get over the breakup. I told her it was a bad idea.”

Your stomach churns, uncomfortably.

“She doesn’t want to be your rebound or something,” He continues, running a hand through his hair, “When you two eventually get together, she wants it to be because of how you feel about her, not about how you feel about Emma.”

The thought of being with Jenna is strange. Like some far distant dream, that could have once been yours.

But you’re done with dreams.

The moment Emma had dumped you, you’d been boiling in the fiery pits of reality. To dream is to hope, and you have none of that left in you.

You’re too tired.

“We’re not getting together,”’ You tell him, and you sound a little sad because you are sad, “Things are just- too complicated.”

Georgie frowns.

“Don’t say that,” He says, sounding put out.

“It’s not meant to be,” You say, “If we were meant to be together, things wouldn’t have been so messy. I should have picked her but I didn’t. Now it’s over.”

Jenna’s standing over with the directors, deep in conversation. She’s dressed in her Wednesday outfit, double braids flowing down her shoulders.

She looks beautiful.

She looks out of reach. And she’ll stay that way. You’ve already put the nail in that coffin.

“You get in your own way, sometimes, you know that?” Georgie says.

“I’m aware.” You say.

“So stop it,” Georgie urges, “Go talk to her. I’m sure she’d love that. I’m not saying you have to ask her on a date or anything, but don’t close yourself off to the idea-”

“I’m moving to a plot of land in Colorado,” You tell him, “And I’m never going to be in a relationship again.”

It’s better for everyone that way. You, a loose canon, safely confined in some faraway place where you could never fire through anyone else’s hearts ever again.

Georgie peers over at you.

“Uh-huh.” He says, as though he doesn’t believe it.

Hunter loses Uno.

Again.

He’s too good-natured to care. He makes you all play a few rounds, before he gets distracted by Joy waving a tequila bottle in his face.

Your mood - although you’re trying to mask it - is a little glum.

Georgie tries to perk you up, but you’ve reached the depressive part of your breakup, and there isn’t much he can do. He flits between you and Jenna, as if trying to act as the bridge that brings the two of you together but it doesn’t work.

Jenna’s on edge, you’re depressed and eventually he just gives up. Wanders off to the kitchen to pour himself another Vodka Soda.

Emma and Johnna are sitting next to each other, quietly chatting. They’re not touching, but you know it’s just for you. You can tell by the way they’re angled towards each other. Emma’s fingers keep jerking slightly, like she wants to reach out and touch Johnna.

But she doesn’t. Because she knows you’re watching.

It’s sweet, kind of, and it makes you want to down the rest of Hunter’s tequila and fall asleep in his bathtub.

Or - throw yourself off the balcony.

The bathtub is occupied - Georgie’s passed out again - so you excuse yourself to the balcony, suck in the cool air of the night and try hard not to think about anything.

You’d be home soon, with your friends, with your family. You’d forget about this place, these people.

You’d forget about your little summer of shooting a show and breaking hearts and feeling the worst pain you’d ever felt in your life.

It’d be like a dream. A horrible, awful, fever dream you’d never want to have again.

The sound of the door sliding open draws your attention.

You assume it’s Georgie, awoken from his bathtub nap and on a quest to see how much he can annoy you in the span of his next conscious hours.

But it’s not him.

It’s Jenna.

She hovers by the door, hand gripping it a little too tight. Her eyes are a little guarded, she tilts her head and offers you the smallest smile.

“Hey.” She says, “Mind if I join you?”

You blink, suddenly feeling foggy. And mesh of booze and emotions finally spilling over. Your heart leaps at the sight of her, thuds so embarrassingly loud you’re sure she can hear it.

“Of course.” You say.

She nods, but doesn’t move over too quickly. She’s had a bit to drink too, you can tell by the red flush on her cheeks.

Awkwardly, you grip the railing of the balcony, and look out into the night sky. The stars sparkle back at you, pretty, but Jenna’s eyes shine brighter than all of them. They’re watching you, no pretense. She’s staring, unabashed.

It makes the tips of your ears redden.

“How are you?” She asks, voice even. She joins you against the railing, rests her arms against the metal, head tilted towards you.

Awful, you want to answer, but you don’t. For her, you can pretend.

“Fine,” You say. You play with the hem of your shirt, “How are you?”

“Okay.” Is all she says.

You chew your lip. Listen to the sounds of the party inside, raging on. You tilt your head back, wonder if anyone has seen the two of you out here. As if it’s some illicit little gathering, and not just the two of you staring at the stars and not knowing what to say to each other.

Georgie has seemingly awoken from his slumber - he and Joy are chugging beers by the sofa. Hunter has a lampshade over his eyes, four tequila’s deep. Emma and Johnna are kissing, softly in the corner. You stare for a moment. Something washes over you, but it isn’t jealousy.

You don’t know what it is.

FOMO, maybe.

You take a long sip of your drink and draw your attention back to Jenna.

She looks beautiful, as ever. Minimal makeup. She’s dressed in a pair of cargo pants and an old sweater. She’s looking at you, bottom lip between her teeth.

Like she’s nervous.

Her eyes dart over to where you’d been looking. They’ve parted now, but Emma’s still holding her hand. She’s smiling, laughing at something Johnna’s said.

“They seem happy,” Jenna says.

“They do.”

Jenna fidgets with the sleeve of her sweater.

“Emma deserves to be happy,” She says, voice soft.

You shoot another look at Emma. Her pretty smile, wide blue eyes. The FOMO is back. You wish she’d been enough for you. You wish you could have made her happy, instead of whatever the fuck you made her. Jealous. Insecure. Hateful. Vengeful.

But she’s back now, sweet Emma. Happy Emma. Not-in-a-relationship-with-you Emma.

They way it maybe should have always been.

“She does.” You say.

Jenna looks over at you. You look away, not wanting to meet her gaze. You’d forgotten the way she stares. No shame, not a care if it made you uncomfortable. She’s like a human x-ray, trying to decipher your emotions with a blink of her eyes.

“So do you,” Jenna says.

You fall quiet. Dancing Queen blares over the speakers. You watch as Hunter grabs Emma and Johnna, drags them laughing over to an impromptu dance floor.

This is what you’d thought being a part of this cast would be like. Fun. Laughter.

Instead, you got heartbreak and depression. And no one to blame but yourself.

“Georgie told me you’re planning on moving to Colorado and becoming a nun.”

You frown. Finally look over to her.

“I don’t think that’s exactly what I said.” You say.

Jenna smiles, a little. She brushes the hair out of her eyes.

“You’d be a cute nun,” She offers, “But I don’t think it’s your calling.”

You hum.

“You’re just saying that because you want to get into my Tunic.” You say.

She snorts.

She lifts her drink to her lips, eyes sparkling. You relax slightly. A risky joke, maybe, but it had been enough to break the tension.

“Georgie also told me I should stop giving you space,” She says, quietly. “I think his exact words were ‘Get up off the ground and fight.’”

“Sounds like Georgie,” You say.

Your heart is back to trying to pound itself out of your chest. The blood rushes to your ears the way it always does when you have conversations like this. Your eyes drop to your glass, suddenly very interested in your ice cubes.

Her stare doesn’t relent.

“He said you thought it was too messy.”

“It is too messy.” You say.

She’s quiet for a moment. You half think she’s going to shrug and head back inside.

It’s what she’d do if she were smart. It’s what she’d do if you got what you deserved. But she doesn’t. She leans slightly against the railing, edging only slightly closer to you. Her shoulders brush your bare arm.

The tiny touch makes your palms sweat. You gulp back the lump in your throat.

“Just because it’s messy doesn’t mean it isn’t right.” She says.

It’s getting harder to pretend you don’t want to look at her. Your head tilts up, slightly to meet her gaze.

She’s biting her lip. Her brown eyes are wide, earnest, like she’s trying to convince you of something.

You’ve not seen her like this before, so unguarded. She’s careful with every word, like she’s on a tightrope, one wrong sentence will send her toppling into a pit of rejection.

She swallows.

“I know you just ended it with Emma only a couple of weeks ago and I don’t expect anything. I’m not trying to swoop in like… a crow on a dead carcass or anything, I just-” She trails off, “I don’t know. I think we’re like- meant to be together or something.”

You blink.

For the first time all night she averts her gaze, as if her own words have suddenly made her shy.

You look at her for a moment. Bashful smile on her lips but worry in her eyes. Like you’ll reject her.

As if she’s not saying exactly what you want to hear.

You open your mouth, then close it again. The blood rushing to your head has made you a little dizzy, her intense gaze not helping. You fumble, slightly, trying to find the right words.

Yes, you idiot! Scream your brain, tell her yes, you’re meant to be and you’ll have a dog and a farm and raise five kids together in Colorado.

But there’s something else.

Something you want to know. Something you’ve been dying to know.

“Is that what you told Emma?” You ask, tilting your head, heart in your throat, “That night on the balcony? You told her you and I were meant to be together?”

She pauses. Something in her eyes flickers. She sucks in her breath slightly, and now she’s the one of edge.

“I told her- she asked me-“

She’s stumbling over her words. It’s strange. You’ve never seen her this un-composed. Her eyes dart away, like she can’t look you in the eyes when she tells you.

“I told her I was falling in love with you.”

You blink.

“Oh.”

She lets out a shaky breath, looks into your eyes, hers mournful. The bass thumps, though you’re not entirely sure it’s not her heartbeat.

She swallows.

“Emma asked me. She straight up asked and I couldn’t lie, YN,” She says, voice quiet. She’s blinking a lot. Wetting her lips every few seconds, “And I know it’s why she broke up with you and I’m sorry that I cost you your relationship-”

“No you’re not,” You say. You lean over the edge of the balcony railing, voice calm, “You’re not sorry she dumped me. You’re glad she dumped me.”

She blinks.

“YN-”

“It’s okay,” You say, “You can admit it. I’m not angry.”

She just stares back at you.

“I think you did everyone a favor,” You say. Your gaze draws back to Emma and Johnna, cuddled up on the sofa, “I mean - they’re happy. Johnna makes her happier than I ever could.”

“And you and me?” She asks, after a moment. Her voice is weighted, only a little hopeful, like she’s trying to manage her expectations.

You pause for a painful moment.

“I should have picked you,” You murmur, “That night by the pool. I felt it and I got scared. I should have picked you.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Panic. She blinks it away before you can be sure. She seizes your hands with her own, tugs you a little closer to her.

“So pick me now,” Jenna says, voice urgent, “I know you feel it too. It’s like fate. Or the stars all aligning or some other bullshit I don’t believe in. Except I believe in it now because I’ve felt it. I’ve felt you.”

She’s close, so close you can make out the freckles dotted along her nose. Her eyes are desperate, her grip on you is tight.

You don’t speak, a moment. The music hums heavy, the sounds of laughter coming from the apartment. There’s a screech of laughter. Someone calls out Hunter’s name. But you don’t pay them any mind.

Your eyes are on Jenna. Jenna and her pretty eyes, Jenna and her constellation of freckles. Jenna and her vanilla body wash. Jenna and her lips, so plump, so red. So kissable.

Jenna.

Her eyes are dipping down, between your lips and your eyes and then back to your lips. Like a magnet, or a moth to a flame.

Her eyes are so dark, impossibly wide, and her lips part only slightly. Her hands brush yours. She’s looking at you like she wants to pin you against the balcony railing and never let you go. Your heart thumps.

You want her just as bad. Colorado be damned, Emma be damned, single life be damned.

All you want is her.

You’d tell her, but you’re not given the chance.

The full weight of her body hits you hard. She lurches at you like she can’t hold back anymore. Her hands tangle in your hair, seizing your neck between her fingertips so she can pull you down to her lips.

Your eyes flutter closed. She isn’t soft. She’s needy and charged and desperate. Her hands knot through your long hair, keeping you in place. You’ve only tasted her like this a few times but it feels just as wonderful as the first. She moans slightly against your mouth, all breathy gasps and quiet groans from just kissing. It makes you ache. You want her so bad you can hardly breathe.

Her tongue slips between your lips as she pushes you against the railing. You kiss for what must be minutes, the hum of the party forgotten, not a care who’s watching.

When she pulls away, her eyes are black with lust, her lips swollen. She nudges her nose against yours and squeezes your hips, desire in her eyes.

“Let’s get out of here.” She murmurs.

next part

#three's a crowd #love triangle fic #fanfic #mine #jenna ortega #wednesday #emma myers #jenna ortega x reader #emma myers x reader #jenna ortega x you #emma myers x you

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thewayofthemandalorian · 2 years

Text

all’s faire - chapter nine

Pairing: Modern!Pero Tovar x F!Reader

Series rating: M

Chapter rating: M

Word count: 4,902

Notes: The final chapter. I’m in a bit of disbelief that this story is over already. I’m also floored by the reception that this series has gotten, and I’m touched that so many people have found such joy in Pero and Florecita’s love story. I’m going to be writing another modern!au with Pero Tovar at some point. All my love and appreciation goes to @ezrasbirdie for beta-reading and being such a cheerleader for this story from the very beginning when it was in early stages. And as always a massive thank you to @lowlights for being such a massive supporter of this story and also yelling at me in the DM’s. I adore you both ❤️

This fic is cross-posted to AO3 under the same name and my taglist can be found linked in my bio as well as my masterlist which is linked below.

Comments/reblogs appreciated.

Chapter warnings: Swearing, kissing, minor argument/disagreement that is quickly resolved, grief, non-explicit sexual content (including semi-public sex/needing to be quiet), proposals

previous chapter || masterlist (main) || masterlist (pero tovar)

The penultimate weekend of Faire comes and goes. You spend time with Sarah, catching up and chit-chatting in between customers.

The Westport Faire is starting this weekend so most people are attending that one. It makes for a long two days. “Is it always this slow?” you ask Sarah halfway through Sunday afternoon. “The last couple of weekends?”

Sarah ponders for a minute. “Yeah. Typically,” she replies. “It would be a lot less stressful for everyone involved if Lockwood’s was four weeks instead of six. Free up more of the summer, you know? Don’t get me wrong, I love it. But I’d like to actually do something with my summer weekends too. I think the kids would love having more of their summer, too.” You’re sure that Cassie wouldn’t mind doing it the entire year. But she’s an outlier in many ways.

The tavern is dead. Your volunteers are busy wiping down the tables and counting the money from what sales you and Sarah have made today.

Your mind wanders to Pero. If you have the schedule correctly, the next duel is in fifteen minutes. Would he come in?

“Next weekend should be fun, though,” Sarah continues.

You look up from the piece of wood on the bar that you’ve been absently staring at. “Hm?”

Sarah adjusts her corset a little bit. “That’s another thing that would be great about only four weekends instead of six. Less damage to the girls and the internal organs. Anyway. Yeah, the last weekend of faire is always…” She smiles softly with a glint of mischief in her eyes as she searches for the word. “...Special. Hey, you should see if your sister wants to come next weekend. She hasn’t been out yet, has she?”

You have no idea what she is talking about. Wasn’t the first weekend typically the special weekend if there was going to be one? It was special to you, anyway. Or at least to your character. It was the weekend that your handfasting had happened. The weekend that had changed everything and truly set things between you and Pero into motion. Had it only been a month ago? How quickly things change.

Clearing your throat, you say, “No. She hasn’t. I’ll see if she wants to next weekend.”

As if summoned by your thoughts, Pero enters the tavern. His hair is slightly rumpled, sweat beading on his forehead. Automatically, you pour him a glass of water and bring it over to him. “My captain,” you say, curtsying as he takes the glass from you.

He downs it in two sips, setting the glass down on the table. Gathering you in his arms, he kisses you. “Florecita.” It’s a chaste kiss. It always has to be at Faire. Or almost always. You reach up and smooth his hair. “Might you accompany me to the duel?” he asks. “If Matilda will give you leave?” He glances at Sarah.

She quickly reassumes her Faire accent. “Oh, aye. Just so long as you return her to me.”

Pero’s look of mischief settles against you, low in your belly. “I make no promises, Señorita Matilda. I may steal her away.”

Sarah stifles a giggle, trying to stay in character. “Very well. Do with her as you will.”

Pero gives you a searing look that only adds to the feeling low in your stomach. He’s doing this on purpose. “Oh, I intend to.”

Taking your hand in his, he leads you out of the tavern and into the hot, sunny afternoon. You lean close, dropping your Faire accent. “I have something to tell you tonight,” you murmur into his ear. To an outsider it looks like you’re sharing a moment with your captain. And in a way you are.

Lin-Mae had given you the go-ahead to tell people about your promotion this morning when you arrived at Faire, the paperwork finally having gone through. Now you can tell people. And the person you’re most excited to tell is standing right beside you.

They’re close, Pero and Lin-Mae. The two people that love William the most and the two people that were loved by him the most. You think back to what Lin-Mae said about you being family. William and Pero were like brothers. And you can’t help but wonder if Pero already knows what you have to tell him.

Pero squints at you in the hot sun, curiosity piqued. “I await your news with eager anticipation,” he says, a million thoughts going through his head. He lifts your joined hands to his mouth and kisses them, right where your palm meets his.

Yeah, you’re excited to tell him.

- - - -

You tell him as you chop the tomatoes for the pasta he’s cooking that night. Both freshly showered, your overdress and chemise are in the washing machine with some of Pero’s clothes. You’ve stolen another one of his shirts, not wanting to get dressed again since you’re only going to be taking your clothes off in a matter of a few hours. Clementine weaves herself between your legs and you stoop down to give her some scritches behind her ears that she loves getting so much. “What did you want to tell me, cielito?” Pero asks.

You resume your chopping. “I got a bit of a promotion,” you start. “The paperwork just got finished on Friday but Lin-Mae didn’t want me to tell anyone until it was finalized.”

Pero just smiles at you. “Is this what you were buzzing about on Tuesday night?” he asks. He doesn’t sound surprised. Pleased and excited for you, yes. Surprised, no.

You grin back at him. “Yeah,” you reply. “Lin-Mae wants me to take over as store manager so she can go and help with her parents.”

Pero leaves the onion and the garlic that he’s sauteing in the frying pan, comes over to you. “I knew it,” he murmurs. “Well, I didn’t know. But I had my suspicions.” You look up at him, setting the knife down next to the cutting board as he embraces you. “I knew that Lin-Mae was looking to step back so that she could pursue other things. It was me that made the suggestion. But I didn’t know she had given it any thought.”

This piece of information startles you and you pull away from his warm embrace to better look at him. “Wh — you suggested me?” you ask. “When?”

Pero thinks for a minute. “The second weekend of Faire,” he shrugs.

This revelation stuns you. “That was before — what?” Pero picks up the cutting board with the tomatoes on it, brings it over to the frying pan to add to the garlic and onions. They sizzle in the frying pan and Pero reduces the heat before turning back to you.

“I—” Pero pauses for a second. “I knew your work ethic even then. You’re dedicated and committed and… you needed something that was just your own. I —”

Whatever else he has to say is cut off as you lean up on your tiptoes to kiss him, your hands cradling his face. His hands rest on your waist. No one’s ever been this considerate, ever done something quite like this for you. Even if it was before you realized your feelings for each other, it was a romantic thing for Pero to do. “That might be the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said or done for me.”

You stand like that for a minute, him holding you close. You love this man with everything you have. And this revelation is all but a declaration of love from him. You’re sure of it. Eventually, Pero turns back to the mixture in the frying pan. You follow close behind, embracing him from behind, your cheek resting against his back.

Over dinner, you talk about how you’ll have to find an employee to take over from what you’ve been doing.

“Perhaps Cassandra?” he suggests. It’s a small thing, but you kind of adore how he always calls her by her full name. It’s such a Pero-ism. You wonder if he’ll ever call her Cassie. Wonder if she’s ever told him that Cassie is fine.

With a smile, you consider asking Cassie. “Maybe. I don’t know if she would want to work with me as her boss.”

“That is true. I’ll think of someone if you like.”

Your fingers play with his. “That would be great. I want to avoid nepotism hiring too, at least for the time being.”

After dinner, he takes you up to his bedroom. He takes his time with you, pulls you apart piece by piece. First with his mouth and his fingers and then again with his body. He holds you close as you reach that high, his name a stifled cry from your mouth.

When you come back to yourself, it’s your turn to show him how he makes you feel. It’s never the same twice with Pero. Each time feels like the first time. You hope it never gets old. That it never feels rote or routine, like it’s something you have to do with him. It’s still such a new thing, what you have with Pero. But it also feels like you’ve known him for a lifetime. Have loved him for a lifetime. And that thought doesn’t frighten you.

As you fall asleep, Clementine resting next to you (she found her way into the bedroom as you and Pero were sharing in your afterglow), you snuggle closer to Pero. Hoping that you never know a life without him.

- - - -

“What does this mean for Faire planning?” asks Pero the next morning over breakfast, his tone suggesting it’s not the first time he’s thought of this.

You frown. “Ummm… not sure. But you know, I can help you. I might be a bit of a newbie, but I know how to plan events. I have some ideas.”

Pero takes a sip of his coffee. “I know you do, amor. And I want to hear them. But Lin-Mae has always been my co-planner.”

You’re not sure why, but this irks you a little bit. You can’t help the sigh that escapes your lungs. “I know she has. But I’m going to tell you the same thing she told me. Phones exist. Computers, too. And don’t worry, it’s not like any of my ideas are terribly drastic.”

It’s Pero’s turn to sigh. “It won’t be the same.” His voice is a snap. Why is he being so pigheaded about this?

It’s then that you catch the look in Pero’s eyes. This has nothing to do with Faire. It’s the fact that a piece of William isn’t going to be around as much anymore. That it might be changing his legacy. This is one of the last things he has of William. And he doesn’t want to tarnish his best friend’s memory or goals. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I know it’s silly…”

You shake your head. “No it isn’t,” you reply, taking his hands in yours. “It’s important to you. But it’s too much to do all by yourself. Lin-Mae will still help where she can and I can help you, too. You’re not alone in this. You don’t have to do everything all by yourself. I promise. You carry too much weight on your shoulders.” You pause. “I remember what you said to me a few weeks ago. That this is supposed to be fun,” you remind him.

He nods without a word. He’s quiet for a moment, save for a breathy, shaky exhale. “I know. I forget that sometimes. But this is important to me.”

“I know it is, Pero. And I can help you to make sure that it stays important. You’ve got me, now. Remember?”

Pero’s hands grip yours just a little bit tighter for a moment. “I don’t think I could forget that.” He presses his forehead to yours. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs to you after a minute.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” you tell him and you mean it. “Let me help you make this into the best Faire Lockwood Falls has ever seen.”

He presses his lips to your cheek and you close your eyes. “I’ll hold you to that, querida.”

A few hours later, he drops you back at Tess’s house. Tess is home, needing to be there for the plumber to fix the leaky shower.

The reason for him dropping you off is two-fold. One is to come over for dinner and meet your sister and niece in this new capacity — he already knows Cassie and Tess from school, but he hasn’t met your sister in any other capacity. Not really.

“Why don’t you go inside and unpack? Maybe make us all some tea?” Tess suggests to you. Cassie gets up from her seat to come and help you but at the last minute sits back down. Her mom must have shot her a look to stay where she is.

While you’re inside, Pero sits down on one of the porch chairs. “How are you, Ms. Miller?” he asks.

“Tess is fine, Pero. You know me well enough. Plus, you’re seeing my sister. And I’m fine.”

Pero knows exactly what this is. Your parents aren’t here to give the “what are your intentions with our daughter?” speech, so it falls to Tess, who’s stepped into the role of protective big sister with ease. “That’s good.”

Your sister doesn’t beat around the bush. It must be a genetic thing. “So you and my sister…” she starts. “How serious is it?”

He clears his throat. “Very serious. I love her. She makes me want to be a better man.” Tess nods, impressed with this answer. Pero fidgets for a second before continuing. “Um… Cassandra already knows this since she was there when I told Lin-Mae this plan, but I have something planned for the last weekend of Faire.”

Cassie’s eyes light up with excitement. “It’s why we want you to come this weekend. Well, also, I want you to see what we’ve been doing.”

Tess raises an eyebrow. “What is it?” she asks, listening intently as Pero, with the aid of Cassie, tells her what the plan is for the final weekend. She’s never heard him speak this much. He doesn’t think he’s ever said this amount in such a short timespan.

You return with a tray of tea and some cookies just as he’s finishing telling your sister what is planned for this weekend. It’s planned for Sunday, the final day of Faire.

There’s a weird energy in the air. Tess looks at you with a look that’s unreadable. Cassie is grinning. “Is everything… okay?” you ask, handing Pero his cup of tea.

The three of them nod. “Mmm-hmmm. Everything’s fine,” Cassie says.

Sitting down next to Pero, his free hand comes to rest on your thigh. “Never go into espionage, kid,” you tell Cassie.

Tess just takes a long sip of her tea.

After dinner, you and Tess clean the kitchen as Pero sits in the living room. You wonder if it’s a bit strange for him, to be spending time with one of his students. That he’s dating a relative of one of his students. “What was all that about this afternoon?” you ask.

Tess looks up from the dishwasher. “Hmm? Oh, nothing,” she says. “He and Cassie were just telling me about Faire.”

You nod, not without a healthy dose of skepticism. “Right. Okay.” Knowing that you’re not going to get anything else out of her, whatever it is, it’s a secret not for your ears yet. Maybe that’s why Sarah was acting squirrely on Sunday, too. Changing the subject, you say, “What do you think? Is he worthy?”

Tess nods. “Yeah. He’s a bit prickly but you’re good for each other. He said…No, I shouldn’t say it,” she says, thinking about how he told her that he loves you. It’s clear that those words haven’t been spoken out loud yet between the two of you. She doesn’t want to be the one that says it for either of you. “Do you love him?” she asks instead.

You look over at him where he’s having a discussion with Cassie about the upcoming school year, just what every teenager on summer vacation wants to talk about. You smile. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I do.”

Once the dishes are done, you find that Pero is gone from the living room. “Bathroom,” Cassie says, not looking up from her phone.

The bathroom door opens, but Pero doesn’t come back. You go to find him; he’s in your room. At the sound of you at the door, he turns from the bookshelf. Shutting the door, you walk over to him, your hands go to his sides, stroking up and down. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” you ask. You know he was nervous about this.

Pero shakes his head. “No. This was lovely.” You lean up and kiss him.

The kiss turns heated. Pero pulls you closer to him, his need for you apparent very quickly. “Pero,” you murmur in between kisses. He moves his lips down your neck, asking the question without vocalizing it. “Yes. I want you. I need you.”

“We’ll need to be quiet. Can you be quiet for me, bebita?” His voice is pure sin. And you are no saint.

While you usually prefer the freedom of being able to vocalize your pleasure, there is something to be said about the urgency. About Pero’s big hand against your mouth as he presses kisses into your skin in between his growls of “that’s my good girl, taking me so well,” having his way with you against the wall of the guest room of your sister’s house. Something that you like very, very much.

If Tess and Cassie hear your muffled sounds, your hushed cries and moans of pleasure against Pero’s hand, or the sound of skin on skin, they don't mention it when you come out some time later for dessert and a game of Scrabble. Nor do they mention your rumpled clothes and the love marks that you and Pero left behind on each other or ask why the window is open when it’s starting to rain.

- - - -

The rest of the week passes with little fanfare. On Friday after work, Pero picks you up and takes you out for dinner. You’re spending more and more time at his place that it’s beginning to feel like home. Then again, it’s always felt like home.

Saturday’s Faire feels normal. It’s the final Saturday of the Faire so it feels a bit bittersweet. At the beginning of all this, you had no idea that it would play out quite like this. It plays out as it always has. You spend more time with Pero than you do at the tavern. It’s become a lot more loose and relaxed, you and he roaming the Faire grounds together between duels, you and Sarah meandering around at other points of the day. You’ve mentioned some of your ideas to him and he’s beginning to take them into consideration. There are forty-six weeks until the next Faire begins after all.

Sunday, however, is an entirely different story. Pero wakes you early, makes love to you as the sun rises. He whispers in your ear, “You’re my special girl. My florecita. I’m so happy I found you.”

Once you arrive at the grounds, Sarah ushers you away from Pero. You’re not sure why, since you’re both already laced up. She brandishes a flower crown. “Since it’s the last day and all,” she says with a wink, placing it on your head. “Perfect. A pirate captain’s queen.”

That’s not the first time she’s said that. “Is there something different about today?” you ask.

Sarah shrugs. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Clearly she’s in on this, too.

If Saturday was lax, today is entirely laid-back. People come in and out and you stay in character. But you never see Pero all day. Not even when you and Sarah meander around the grounds, interacting with guests and taking in the last day of this year’s Faire.

Tess only shows up near the end of the day. She has a turkey leg in one hand, a map in the other. “You look nice,” she says. “Oh, yes. The flower crown is a perfect touch,” she says to Sarah. “I’ll admit, I didn’t know what to expect, but this is really something.”

At four-thirty, half an hour before the Faire is supposed to end, Pero finally comes into the tavern. “I do apologize, Captain, but we are no longer in service for this day,” Sarah says.

“I am not here for a drink,” replies Pero. “I am here to see my intended.”

You walk over to him, suddenly shy. Whatever Tess, Cassie and Sarah are in on, he’s got something to do with it. “My Captain,” you murmur. You go to curtsy as you always do, but he catches your chin before you can, lifting it with one finger, allowing you to look at him.

“Bonita. Mi amor.” He’s speaking as Pero, not as the captain and mercenary to your tavern maid. “Will you come with me?” he asks, looking shy.

With a nod, you take his hand and follow his lead, vaguely aware that you have an entourage trailing behind you. Sarah and Tess take up the rear, following you through the Faire grounds.

You recognize where you’re going as soon as you turn the bend that leads to the smithy. You haven’t been here since the first weekend. Not since —

Lin-Mae, Will Ballard and Cassie are standing there.

Oh. You turn to Pero. “What’s going on? We’re already handfasted. I think we’ve still got time.”

He smiles at you. “No we’re not. Captain Bastian is handfasted to the tavern wench. I am not handfasted to you.”

You’re suddenly very aware of your heartbeat and your breathing. “I see,” you hear yourself say.

Pero continues. “I never expected this summer to turn out the way it did. But I am so glad that it did. I am so glad it was you that Cassandra brought to me at the handfasting ceremony on the first weekend. I love you. And I wanted this last day to be a reflection of the first weekend. To celebrate how far we’ve come.”

Tears prick your eyes. “I love you too, Pero.” He bends to kiss you, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb as he leans his forehead against yours.

With a shivering breath, you and Pero turn to face Lin-Mae and Will Ballard, ready for the handfasting ceremony.

Like the first time, everything melts away except for you and Pero. Nothing else matters except for him and you and his hand around yours. The feeling that you had the first time around, the feeling about him protecting you and taking care of you, returns tenfold, because he has. He will. The faint sensation of the handfasting string being woven around your hands with each new vow as you and Pero look into each other’s eyes.

“You are bound for a year and a day. At the end of this time, should you wish to remain so, return to me and state your intention. Otherwise you are free to go your separate ways.” You and Pero seal your vows with a kiss, more tears streaming down your face.

“I love you. And I want you to move in with me. And I want to spend time with you,” Pero murmurs.

You nod against his forehead. “I love you. I want those things too. We can figure things out.”

You have a year and a day. You’ve got a lot of time to figure it out. You’ll figure things out together.

- - - -

One year and one day later

“How’s Chicago? How are your parents?” you ask as you open the door for Lin-Mae. It’s Monday so the store is closed. You’ve kept the same hours. Pero came through with finding you an employee in Delilah Patterson. She’s a good kid and a hard worker.

Lin-Mae is in town for a “staff meeting” or so she says. But really she’s here to see Dan, but used wanting to see how the store is going this summer as an excuse. Despite the fact that she’s been here for the last month and a half for Faire.

“It’s good. And they’re fine. The studio is almost ready to open, too.”

You sit down in the cafe part of the store, coffees already made for the both of you. It’s been an interesting year. You officially moved out of your sister’s guest room the third week of August last year into what is now Pero and your house. “It was already your home, mi amor,” he’d said to you. “You are home.” Clementine had agreed with that statement completely, settling in on the couch between you and Pero that night, purring loudly as you gave her pets and scritches. For a cat who doesn’t like strangers, she warmed up to you in no time flat. She almost always sleeps curled up beside you in the bed.

Since taking over in planning Faire with Pero from Lin-Mae for the most part (she is still involved in planning and gets final say for more questionable changes but you have taken over most of the more mundane and smaller things) most things have stayed the same. But there were also some changes as well. For starters, you’d bartered a shorter run time, reducing it from six weeks to four so it ran through the last weekend of June and the first three weekends of July. Giving everyone involved more time to plan and more time to enjoy the summer. Though you had met Pero’s parents at Christmas when they came to visit, you have plans to go to Mallorca in August with him to spend two weeks and meet the rest of his family. Another perk of cutting things a bit shorter at Faire, getting to do more things like this with Pero.

Speaking of Faire, you and Sarah also aren’t as tethered to the tavern as you had been last year. You had enlisted staff from Nick’s to come in and work the tavern so that you and Sarah could float around through the Faire grounds or be in the tavern if you so chose. The handfasting storyline between your tavern wench and Pero’s captain-slash-mercenary has stayed in place and everything was overall a lot more easygoing and relaxed while maintaining what William had wanted it to be.

It had been your idea to put a commemorative plaque at the entrance to the Faire grounds, honouring and remembering William Garin as the man who first came up with the idea. The best friend, brother figure and husband with a big heart.

The meeting doesn’t last long, not that you suspected it would. “Everything seems to be in order,” says Lin-Mae, handing your portfolio back to you.

The bell jingles as the door opens. “I thought I locked that,” you murmur, getting up to see who it is and to tell them that the store is closed. But then you see who it is. “Hey, love,” you greet your boyfriend with a kiss. “What’s up?”

Pero hugs you and then looks over your shoulder. “Your Majesty,” he says in a serious voice as Lin-Mae comes closer. Her shoulder bag is slung across her, she’s ready to go. You frown at him quizzically; Faire’s been over for a solid two weeks, why is he referring to Lin-Mae like this? She must be confused as well because she shares your look of slight bemused bewilderment. “It has been one year and one day since you have bound me to this woman. I am here to state my intentions.”

Lin-Mae looks puzzled for a second longer before realization dawns for her.

And then it dawns for you too.

With a knowing smile, Lin-Mae says, “By all means, go ahead. But I hardly think I need to be here.” To you she says, “I’ll see you and Sarah tomorrow night?”

Mutely, you nod and Lin-Mae sees herself out, locking the door behind her.

“Pero…” you start. When you turn around, he’s kneeling down on one knee. “Pero,” you repeat, your throat clogged all of a sudden.

He says your name. “I love you. You’re the love of my life. You’re mi florecita and I want to spend the rest of my life with you by my side. Will you marry me?” Pero pulls a ring box out of his pocket and opens it, revealing a simple diamond ring.

You sink down to your knees so you’re on his level when you answer, a breathless, “Yes, Pero. Yes!” Wrapping your arms around him, you meet his lips for a kiss. When you break apart, he takes the ring out and slides it on your finger. “It was my abuela's,” he tells you before he picks you both up off the floor and takes you in his arms and kisses you soundly.

Just over a year ago, you never expected that you would get along with this man—the man who is now your fiancé—let alone be in love with him and want to spend your life with him. You’ve never been so wrong, or so glad to be wrong, in your entire life.

The End

--- taglist in reblog

#pedro pascal #pero tovar x reader #pero tovar #the great wall #the great wall movie #my writing #my fic #modern pero tovar

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abbatoirablaze · 2 months

Text

Deal With The Devil, Chapter 4

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: morally grey Steve Rogers, noncon relationship, references to sexual favors/ oral (M receiving).

“Fucking crazy,” Bucky growled as he looked at Sam, “Steve really ordered this shit? You let him order this shit?”

“His fiancé did,” Sam chuckled as he laughed at how enraged Bucky was getting over the unhealthy food option, “and she insisted that he eat it with her.”

Bucky’s brow rose, “fiancé? Since when?”

“Since this afternoon,” Sam smirked, “she’s a fiery little thing too. There might finally be a woman that puts Steve Rogers in his place.”

Bucky frowned, “fiery or not she doesn’t need to be affecting Steve’s routine with this type of food. He’s supposed to stay in peak physic-“

“Buck, I-“

“Only Steve calls me Buck, Sam,” Bucky growled, cutting the other man off, “we’re not that close. Remember that.”

“Fine, Barnes,” Sam shrugged, emphasizing the fact that he was calling him by his last name, “go run the pizza, cheesecake, and cokes up to the boss and his fiancé. He wants you to meet her anyways, so you know the new face you have to protect.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grumbled. Sam walked off, leaving Bucky at the private elevator that would take him to Steve’s office. Getting on, he pressed the button.

Looking back down at the box, he grimaced. Steve didn’t need to be eating all this grease and fat.

He’d spent years, working with his boss, prepping meals for him, working out with him, to carefully construct the penultimate form for him.

If there was one thing his father always taught him, it was that his body was a temple.

And so, he treated it like such with his dietary and physical fitness choices.

And he’d thought that he’d taught Steve that too!

Only for Steve to be indulging in pepperoni pizza, sugary sodas, and cheesecake.

He huffed to himself as the doors opened and he was met with the light on in Steve’s office. Internally, he prepared himself, getting ready to berate his friend over the decision to get engaged to a woman he didn’t know, as well as to cheat on his dietary choices.

He’d gotten himself so worked up that he was ready to throw the takeout bag with the beverages and desserts at him, to toss the pizza on the ground in a defiant act.

But he froze when he opened the door, and his eyes instantly focused on the woman he’d met this afternoon at the bookstore.

He felt the resounding breaking of his heart all the way to his soul as he stared at her sweet, innocent sleeping form tucked beneath his suit jacket. He noticed her shoes, both haphazardly thrown in two very different spots in the room.

Steve looked up from his desk; the light partially illuminating his features as he stopped working on the ledger. Steve gave his long-time friend a soft, but sad smile, “I know what you’re going to say, Buck…”

“I know what you’re going to say, Buck,” Steve sighed as he looked at his friend in the door. Bucky gave him a worried look and his sister Rebecca slid from behind his frame. Steve’s lips parted, and his jaw twitched, “Rebecca…what are you doing here?”

“We have to help her, Steve…”

Steve frowned again, another sigh leaving his lips as he looked away from the two eldest Barnes siblings, “Buck…what did you do?”

“I made him sneak me out. Don’t be mad at him,” Rebecca said nervously from beside her brother, “Steve…please…”

“They’re going to give her to Odin’s lieutenant, Laufey,” Bucky begged, “Please, Steve. I didn’t ask for anything when I became your third. I-“

“Loki?” Steve asked.

Rebecca shook her head, paling at the thought of what she was in for, “no, Steve, not Loki. Laufey, his father.”

“Buck…go downstairs…”

“Steve, I-“

“You shouldn’t be part of this,” Steve said firmly as his eyes flickered between his best friend and his sister, “Odin will come asking questions about you first when she’s missing tomorrow morning.”

“My other sisters…”

“Are too young,” Steve said firmly, “Odin is a menace, but they have a few years before they’re in any real danger. Your mom will find ways to protect them. But you’re not safe. Buck. Go downstairs. Take Sam out to Odin’s territory and sniff around. That way their people have eyes on the two of you, without your sister. They won’t be able to blame you!”

Bucky nodded gravely and Rebecca turned to face him. Her arms wrapped around his abdomen, and she sobbed against his chest, “I don’t know if I’ll see you again, James…”

“You won’t, Becs…that’s the point!” he said sadly, “but you’ll be safe…somewhere far away from here…”

“Thank you!” she whispered against his chest.

“Let go of him, Rebecca…he has to go…”

She sniffled and removed herself, but leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek, “goodbye, James.”

“Be safe, Becs…”

Steve waited until he heard the elevator doors close, before looking at Rebecca. His brow rose, “you know my price to get out of the country, Barnes.”

“You said you’d help-“

“And you know my price,” he replied firmly, “you want to escape Odin and his regime, you pay the price I ask, Rebecca.”

“But Bucky-“

Steve waltzed over to Rebecca and drew her further into the room before closing and locking the door to his office. He leaned against the door and crossed his arms, “do you want out, or not? Because I don’t have any problems with handing you over to the Allfather so Laufey could do what he likes with you.”

“Steve-“

“Knees!” he commanded firmly.

She felt the tears coming back pricking at the corners of her eyes, while a gnawing twinge bit at the back of her throat. She wrang her hands together, “Steve, I-“

“On. Your. Knees.” He said once more, “now!”

A shiver ran down her spine and she followed the demand. Sniffling, she dropped to her knees while Steve undid the button and fly of his pants.

“Would you look at that, Becs…he likes you!” Steve taunted with his own little smile as his cock started to come alive when he pulled himself from his pants and started stroking his length, “give him a little kiss.”

She looked up at him through teary eyes. His faux friendly demeanor and cat-like grin made her stomach turn, “yo-you’re supposed to be his friend, Steve…you shouldn’t be-“

He reached down and grabbed her by her hair, “don’t tell me what I should and should not do, Rebecca…right now, you’re a whore on the run…how does that look if I return you?”

“Y-you wouldn’t!”

“You’re right,” he smirked, his other hand still pumping away as his erect cock nearly poked her in the cheek, “because you’re going to take care of me…you’re going to show me how much you want to be rid of the title of Laufey’s fiancé. I can put you anywhere in the world, Rebecca. Just give me what I want. What I’ve always wanted. No one needs to know about this…it’s just me and you…like it should have been when I first asked for your hand.”

She paled a little bit more, “Th-that’s why you’ve been James’ friend the whole time…y-you just wanted to use him…”

“We all use each other, Rebecca…I never loved you, just like you never loved me…that’s why we agreed to split up. But you want to use me and now I want to use you one last time…so get to it,” he urged, “unless you want to hop in the car and take a ride down to Staten Island.”

“James…”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up to hers. She had shifted out from beneath Steve’s suit jacket, and her bare feet were padding across the floor to him.

But Bucky could see the jealousy in Steve’s eyes as his hand snapped out and he grabbed her wrist, stopping her as she passed his desk, “you two know each other?”

“We met at the bookstore earlier today,” she whimpered, her eyes locking on where Steve had grabbed her, “Steve…that hurts.”

He frowned and let her go, “Sorry…just not used to people knowing you yet…got nervous.”

“But you trust him, right?”

Steve’s eyes met Bucky’s once more and he nodded, “Buck’s family used to run Staten Island…originally…Odin tore it down during the last big turf war…killed Buck’s dad…tried to pawn off his sisters…”

“Steve offered me a place working for him,” Bucky nodded, “helped me ship my oldest sister off because Odin was going to give her to a lieutenant…made sure that my mom and younger sisters have a place here in Brooklyn where they’re safe.”

She nodded, biting her lip. Her stomach rumbled, and suddenly Bucky remembered why he’d come up in the first place.

“Buck…food?”

“Right,” he nodded, walking further into the office and placing the bag and takeout box on Steve’s desk, “pizza, cheesecake, and cokes.”

Inez smiled, gently reaching for the box, “I haven’t had good pizza in ages…usually I have to sneak away from Tony’s people and meet up with Peter to get good pizza. Queens has the bes-“

“Actually, we have the best!” Steve smiled, cutting her off, “pizza and cheesecake.”

She scoffed, grabbing a slice, “I doubt it, Rogers. Manhattan has the best desserts. Queens has the best pies.”

“Bougiest desserts, maybe,” Steve snorted as he reached into the box and grabbed a slice for himself, “but I grew up here, honey. I bought this very club because it’s across the street from the best pizza joint in the state.”

Bucky frowned, “you don’t eat pizza, punk!”

“Not anymore I don’t,” he smirked, taking the slice and indulging. He moaned into the first bite, “god, I haven’t had this place since I was a kid. Still the best slices though.”

Inez giggled as she took a bite of her own piece, “who knew that Steve Rogers had a secret fetish for pizza.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Inny!” he teased.

She instantly scowled at him and Bucky felt his stomach turning at the thought of someone getting along with the girl he’d instantly had a crush on, “I told you not to call me that, Rogers…”

Steve frowned in response, “back to Rogers already…well that didn’t last long.”

“That what you always tell the girls?”

And instantly Steve was smiling again as he took another bite, “you curious about what I do with other girls, Inny? Wanna find out for yourself?”

“In your dreams!” she scoffed, reaching across the desk to take a coke and a second slice of pizza. Both Bucky and Steve watched as she made her way back to the couch.

“What a woman,” Steve smiled, looking to Bucky as she sat back down and wrapped his coat back around her, “I don’t even care that she’s getting grease on a $4000 jacket.”

Bucky tried to push away his own intrusive thoughts as he looked at his best friend, “so you went to Stark? Got engaged? Why?”

“They’re going to start a war…”

“Stark?”

“Thor and Clint…against each other. I told Tony that I would marry his sister, and stay neutral while they fought it out,” he admitted, “Buck…if they kill each other, I’m going to try to get Staten Island back. You’re one of the original families…it’s your birthright…I know Tony and Peter will take back the Bronx if it comes down to it, and that’s Pepper’s family. They’ll probably do something like put Happy in charge…but you deserve your home, Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes glanced over to Inez.

She was listening to them, and Bucky could tell, but Steve only shook his head at him, “she’s not part of it any more than any other head of family’s wife is.”

“She’s Tony’s sister…Pepper’s sister-in-law. Peter is related to Pepper. How is she not involved?”

“She’s going to be my wife, punk. We all know that allegiances go to family,” Steve pointed out, “and your old family stops when the ring is on the finger. We’re going to get married with some JP. And then we’re going to consummate it, starting the next generation of Rogers.”

Inez gawked at him, and he leaned back in his chair, “come on now, honey, I’ve been telling you that we’ll consummate our marriage all day.”

“I-we’re not-“

“We’re not, what?” he chuckled in an amused tone, “what aren’t we doing, honey?”

“I’m not some useless woman that you can fuck a kid into because you’re one of the five famil-“

“Please, honey, it’s my god damned birthright,” Steve chuckled, “Inez, you’re not a stupid whore. You’re meant to be the wife of one of the five families’ sons. Not a mistress.”

“You promised Tony tha-“

“I know what I told your brother,” he said firmly, “and I’ll take good care of you, Inez. So long as you take care of your wifely duties…scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours…or well, do what I say, and I’ll make you the happiest wife in all the boroughs.”

Her eyes snapped to Bucky’s, a secret hope that he’d help her.

Bucky looked away from her, seeing the same sadness he’d remembered seeing in his sister’s eyes, “you uh-need anything else, boss?”

“That’ll be all, Buck…” Steve replied, not bothering to look at Bucky, “got to get some quality time in with the wife, right, Inny?”

“Go to hell, Rogers.”

Chapter 5

Tag List: @teambarnes72, @prokey16, @lohnes16

#deal with the devil #marvel #marvel au #the avengers #steve rogers #captain america #bucky barnes #james bucky buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #falcon and the winter soldier #the falcon #sam wilson #mob au #mafia au #james bucky barnes

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